


Pieces of You

by idoltina



Series: Breakeven [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Gen, Homophobia, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five adolescent members of the Lima chapter of PFLAG deal with growing up, coming out, moving out, moving up, and moving forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kurt Hummel

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings (if any):** Language, homophobia, violence, sex

**Sunday, 20 November 2011**

“Oh,” Kurt breathes. “That's gorgeous.”

“Which part?” Blaine asks, glancing down at Kurt curled up against his chest.

“The chandelier,” Kurt clarifies, gesturing at the television from the couch. “I want that in our apartment.”

Blaine laughs. “How about we hold off on extravagant decorations until we're not poor college students?”

“Wait, you guys are getting an apartment?” Finn asks from the armchair.

“Maybe not the first year,” Blaine allows, tugging Kurt closer. “But sophomore year, maybe. If we end up at different schools, we'll have to find something halfway --”

“So you want to go to New York too?” Finn pries, eyeing Blaine.

“Well, yeah,” Blaine says, shrugging his shoulders. “We talked about it right before you guys went to Nationals last year --”

“You _did_?” Finn asks, switching his wide-eyed gaze to his step-brother.

“Yes,” Kurt says simply, keeping his gaze trained on the television. “We did.”

“Wow,” Finn huffs out. “College application deadlines aren't even until the end of the month and you guys are already planning out what your first apartment's gonna look like in a _year and a half_.”

“Your point, Finn?” Kurt snaps. Blaine glances down at him, brow furrowed.

“It's just... you kinda remind me of Rachel,” Finn mumbles.

“Excuse me?” Kurt drawls, finally deigning to look over at Finn with an arched eyebrow.

“She dreams big,” Finn says with a shrug. “You do that too. I noticed that when we were in New York.”

Kurt's quiet for a moment. “Have you talked about it?” he asks quietly. “You and Rachel. Have you talked about --”

“Not since after Nationals,” Finn says, shifting uncomfortably. “I know she wants to, now that we're applying places, but...”

“You don't want to go,” Blaine supplies. “To New York. Rachel's set on going there and you're not sold on it.”

“I don't know,” Finn admits with a sigh. “I had a good time while we were there, but... it seems too big for me. I don't fit in there.”

“Where are you applying?” Blaine asks. Kurt reaches for Blaine's hand and strokes the back of it lightly, his breathing slightly uneven.

“Everywhere,” Finn says unhelpfully. “Here, New York, California, Texas...”

“Texas?” Kurt echos. “You're not serious.”

“I'd fit in better there than New York,” Finn argues. “Plus, there's this one school -- University of Houston -- that has a really good education program --”

“Education?” Blaine asks with a smile. “You want to teach?”

“You want to be around _children_?” Kurt asks, aghast.

“Yes,” Finn and Blaine answer at the same time. They smile at each other.

Kurt just stares at them. “Have you both lost your minds?”

“Hey,” Blaine interjects, wounded. “I'm serious.”

“You get along with Sam's siblings,” Finn points out. Blaine looks over at him gratefully.

“They're well-behaved,” Kurt says dismissively. “But if you're around a bunch of six-year-olds every day for most of the year --”

“You adjust,” Blaine argues. “You learn what discipline methods work, how to make the material enjoyable.”

“Okay,” Kurt sighs, resigning and sitting up a little to look at Blaine. “So what's your plan, then? Because you _know_ teachers are severely underpaid, right?”

“Yes,” Blaine sighs. “But New York needs good music teachers. And I'm willing to tough it out living in a closet with you for a few years until we can afford a bigger place that you're going to make _beautiful_.”

The corner of Kurt's mouth twitches upward. “Don't you want a say in our decorating theme?”

“Well, yeah,” Blaine agrees. “But what are the chances I'm not going be on board with what you pick out? I mean, I like what you've done with your room here.”

Kurt smiles faintly and inhales loudly, pushing himself fully upright and off of the couch. “I'm going to make a snack,” he announces. “Do either of you want anything?”

“I'll have what you're having,” Blaine says amicably. “Do you want help?”

“No, I'm okay. Finn?”

“Doritos,” Finn says as his stomach grumbles. Blaine grins at him. “The ones in the red bag, not the blue one.” Kurt rolls his eyes but leaves for the kitchen, and once he's out of earshot, he immediately turns to Blaine and lowers his voice. “Can I ask you something?” Blaine's brow furrows but he waves Finn on. “Can you like, not ever break up with him?”

Blaine laughs a little. “Um, what?”

Finn leans forward, elbows on his knees, and looks at Blaine imploringly. “You guys are kind of perfect together, but this... this whole New York thing? You guys moving in together?”

“It's not for a few years, Finn,” Blaine reminds him. “We aren't even halfway through senior year yet; we're just talking about-”

“No,” Finn cuts in, shaking his head. “No, you're not _just_ talking about it. You're planning. Or at least Kurt is. And you need to know that.”

“I do know that,” Blaine says slowly, confused. “I don't see what the problem is here.”

“I...” Finn tapers off, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. “I haven't always been great with him, you know? I was pretty lousy to him before the wedding, before we moved in here...”

“I know,” Blaine says gently. As awkward as it is to be talking to Finn about Kurt's old infatuation, Blaine knows this has been a long time coming and apparently, it really needs to be talked about right now. “Kurt knows he came on too strong --”

“Well, yeah,” Finn allows. “Yeah, he did. But I was still lousy to him. I... said some stuff when he was redecorating his room...”

Blaine's stomach clenches but he fights to be diplomatic. “You're not that person anymore, Finn,” he says calmly.

“No,” Finn agrees vehemently. “No, I'm not. But I think it... Look, I think it's kind of a big deal that he can talk to you about this kind of stuff.”

“Well it's not like I'm not interested, Finn,” Blaine says with amusement.

“I don't think that matters as much as it should.” At Blaine's questioning look, Finn sighs. “I don't think he's going to be very... open about this.”

“Open about what, exactly?” Blaine asks carefully.

“Decorating,” Finn clarifies. “ _Living_ together. _Your_ apartment. I didn't exactly give him a good impression of what it could be like.”

“Oh,” Blaine says quietly, folding his hands in his lap. “So... the whole chandelier thing,” he continues, nodding toward the television, “that's... a big deal.”

“Maybe,” Finn says with a shrug. “I bet there's lots more he _wants_ to talk about but...”

“He might be afraid to,” Blaine finishes. “I... think I get it. Thanks, Finn.”

“You've been really good to him,” Finn says sheepishly, sitting back in the chair. “He deserves that.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees with a small smile, “he does.”

“Okay,” Kurt announces with a huff, a bowl of apple slices in one hand and the red bag of Doritios in the other. “Food.”

“Awesome.” Finn rises from the arm chair and snatches the bag from Kurt's hand. “Thanks, bro,” he adds before dashing upstairs.

Kurt rolls his eyes and sets the bowl on the coffee table, settling back down next to Blaine. “Sometimes I wonder how I'm related to him.”

“You're not blood relatives,” Blaine laughs, turning to face Kurt.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Kurt says dismissively, biting into an apple slice.

“Can I ask you something?” Blaine says after a moment.

“Hmm?” Kurt buzzes, swallowing the last bit of apple.

“Do you trust me?”

Kurt blinks and tilts his head slightly. “Yes,” he says slowly. “Why?”

“Are you nervous about us moving in together?”

Kurt inhales sharply. “Finn talked to you.” Blaine hesitates and then nods. “Blaine,” he sighs.

“Be honest with me,” Blaine pleads. “If we don't talk about this now, what's going to happen when we _do_ move in together? Do you think we're going to fight over decorating or schedule conflicts or the fact that we live in a closet?”

“A literal closet,” Kurt quips.

“You're deflecting,” Blaine points out.

Kurt squirms uncomfortably. “I just... It's not going to be like it was with Finn,” he promises. “I wanted him to like the same things I did. I don't have to worry about that with you.”

“So what are you worried about?” Blaine asks, reaching for Kurt's hand.

“It's not about the decorating,” Kurt says slowly. “Well, it is,” he amends. “But it's more... We're making those decisions together. We're trying to create a space for us to live in. And I just... What's comfortable to me might not be comfortable to you. When you get up in the morning, I don't want you to hate where you live.”

“You want it to be home,” Blaine breathes. “You -- even if we live in a closet, you want me to feel comfortable enough living with you to call it home, even if we only live there for a few years.” Kurt bites his lip and Blaine shakes his head, half-laughing. “Oh my god, Kurt. I -- you could decorate the entire apartment in _zebra print_ and I wouldn't care. You'd make it work and we'd be _living together_. I'm going to wake up next to you every morning. That's enough.”

“Zebra print and that chandelier?” Kurt asks, wrinkling his nose. “That's just... that's not anything. That's not even hipster.”

“So we'll paint vines on the cracks in the walls and hang up an antique coffee roaster on the wall and lanterns from the ceiling,” Blaine teases.

“A coffee roaster? Really?”

“Antique,” Blaine emphasizes.

“Oh my god,” Kurt groans, hiding his face in his hands. “No. I'm not moving in with you. No. That's just -- you're _ridiculous_ ,” he hisses, starting to rise from the couch.

“Kurt, I'm teasing,” Blaine laughs, tugging him back down by the hand. “We've got a whole year and a half to figure out how we want our place to look.”

Kurt allows himself to be tugged back down but bites his lip nervously. “What if we end up at schools far away from each other? What if 'halfway' still means we each have to travel an hour or more every day? What if we never see each other?”

“Well that all depends on where you want to go,” Blaine reasons. “I mean, what are you considering? Out of all of the places you're applying, where do you want to get in the most?”

Kurt's quiet for a long moment, surveying Blaine's face, and his voice is entirely too soft when he finally answers, “F.I.T.”

Blaine blinks, surprised, and then smiles. “F.I.T.? Really?” Kurt nods. “That's -- wow. I didn't know you were considering that.”

“For a while now,” Kurt admits. “I know it's a long shot --”

“You'd get in,” Blaine says. When Kurt shakes his head, Blaine counters, “No, I'm serious. You -- god, see? This is my point. You have amazing taste and _such_ a good eye. You're really creative. That's right up your alley.”

Kurt smiles a little but shifts awkwardly on the couch, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Where are you applying? Where... where do you want to go? We've talked about New York but there are so many places you could go, so many other good schools... out of state --”

“No,” Blaine says firmly. “I want New York. That's been the plan for ages.”

“Plans change, Blaine,” Kurt says gently.

“Not this one,” Blaine insists. “Not you, not... us.” Kurt flushes and smiles. “NYU,” he says finally. “NYU has an amazing education program. I'd love to go there -- Steinhardt.”

“Steinhardt's on Washington Square, right?” Kurt verifies slowly. Blaine nods. “Oh wow,” Kurt breathes. “Just... wow.”

“Wow?” Blaine parrots, arching an eyebrow.

“They're like, five minutes away from each other,” Kurt explains. “That's...”

“Wow,” Blaine finishes for him, laughing a little. “We'd be so spoiled. We could have breakfast together or meet up for lunch in the park or --”

“Assuming our schedules don't clash,” Kurt says, and there's an edge in his voice that Blaine can't quite figure out. “I don't even know what you're like in the morning.”

Blaine picks up on the unspoken subjects there -- on sleeping together and _sleeping_ together, sharing a bed and being intimate in more than just a physical way and having _sex_ on a regular basis (while they've fooled around, they haven't quite gone all the way yet and Blaine's starting to see what a glaring effect that's having on the whole 'moving in together' concept). Blaine tilts his head to the side and offers a reassuring smile, reaching out for Kurt's hand again. “I think you wake up earlier than I do,” Blaine starts, trying to sort things out.

“Yeah, I think I do,” Kurt concurs, squeezing Blaine's hand a little more firmly when Blaine's thumb starts to drag across the top of his hand. “What's the first thing you do in the morning?”

“Eat,” Blaine says definitively. “I'm always starving when I wake up. I like to shower later, right before I leave. I feel better that way.”

Kurt full on _smiles_ at that and scoots a little closer. “I shower first. And then moisturize. And then I eat.”

“So,” Blaine reasons, “if you get up early enough, we might actually be able to eat breakfast together?”

“Yeah,” Kurt says, moving his free hand to Blaine's knee. “Maybe.”

“See?” Blaine points out, leaning in to kiss the corner of Kurt's lips. “It's not as bad as you think. We just have to talk these things out. We've got lots of time.”

Kurt gives him a once over before pushing himself off of the couch, still holding Blaine's hand. “Come on,” he says, tugging Blaine up. “There's something I want to show you.”

“Do you have a swatch board with zebra prints on it?” Blaine chides. “Because without the chandelier, that could totally be hipster --”

“You're awful,” Kurt laughs, leading him up the stairs. “No, I have a folder full of cut outs -- designs and stuff -- that I've been saving.”

“For what, decorating ideas?”

“Well, yeah,” Kurt reasons, pulling open his nightstand drawer. “If -- hey!” He lands on the bed with an _oomph_ , Blaine on top of him post-tackle. “What was that f -- mmph.” Blaine's lips find his, soft and warm and smiling. When he pulls away, Blaine breathes warm and heavy against Kurt's face. “What was that for?” Kurt asks breathlessly.

“For trusting me,” Blaine says with a small smile. “For sharing. I know that's not easy for you --”

“We've always done that,” Kurt argues. “Why would I stop now?”

“No, I meant in general,” Blaine explains. “I -- the things you've said at the PFLAG meetings, like... when you told your dad you didn't want to invite Finn or anyone else for a while. You wanted less people so that the members already there were comfortable enough to share. That's more of a reflection of you than I think you realize.”

“I guess,” Kurt owns. He's quiet for a minute, and then, “Are we going to talk about the sex thing? Because we've kind of danced around it any time we talk about moving in together, and we haven't mentioned it at the last couple of meetings, especially after Brittany --”

“Oh god, don't remind me,” Blaine groans, blushing and burying his face in Kurt's shoulder.

“This is going somewhere,” Kurt says, and Blaine lifts his head because he is so, so grateful that Kurt is putting aside nerves to actually _deal_ with this. “And you know I'm nervous about it.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees. “But a few weeks ago you were practically grinding against me in a college board room. So I'd say you've made progress.”

“It's not like I don't want it,” Kurt says, irritated. “I just... I trust you, okay? I do. And even though this is probably going to happen before we even leave for college next year, long before we actually move in together, there's a difference between knowing it and --”

“And it actually happening,” Blaine finishes. “Yeah, I get it.” He pauses, and then adds, “Think of it this way. They're two different types of intimacy, sex and living with someone. You have to be comfortable enough with someone else in your personal space to let those things happen. Like -- now. I'm kind of invading your personal space now,” Blaine says with a slight grin. “Does this bother you?”

“No,” Kurt admits, grinning back. “But you're not planning on having sex with me while Finn's down the hall, are you? Or staying the night? Because I'm pretty sure my dad will want to have another _talk_ if you do --”

“No,” Blaine admits with a laugh. “Although I wouldn't be opposed to _something_ happening...”

“Such as?” Kurt asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Mmm,” Blaine muses, “why don't we stop talking and find out?” Kurt's laugh is muffled when Blaine's lips find his again.


	2. David Karofsky

**Monday, 5 December 2011**

“Hey,” Blaine greets as he sidles up next to Kurt's locker. “Did my government notebook end up in your bag? I wanted to review my notes before the exam but I can't find it,” he explains, digging through his own bag. Sighing, he gives up and looks at Kurt, who's staring across the hall at the opposite row of lockers with wide eyes, his face pale. “Kurt?” Blaine pries gently. “Are you okay? What's the matter?” Kurt nods slightly at the lockers opposite them, lips thinning into a line. Blaine follows Kurt's gaze; his chest tightens when he glimpses the offending sight.

Graffiti marks up the ugly tan, black ink dragged spiky across the metal, one word repeated over and over again, always the same size, different angles: _FAG_.

“Is that meant for you?” Blaine asks quietly. “Or -- or me?” Kurt shakes his head slowly and starts to tremble a little, inching closer to Blaine. “Whose locker is that?”

Kurt doesn't have to answer because its owner is just feet away now. His eyes still haven't found the insult yet and both Kurt and Blaine hold their breath, watching, waiting.

David Karofsky stands in front of his locker and looks up; and slowly, his eyes widen, his face pales, and he swallows thickly. Blaine can't hear him breathing, and out of the corner of his eye, he glimpses Santana at her own locker down the hall, watching the scene unfold with the same expression.

The hallway starts to quiet as each face turns to watch David, but Kurt speaks in a low tone to Blaine. “No one at PFLAG would've outed him,” he insists. “They wouldn't have.”

“I know.” Blaine draws in a breath and looks over to Santana, who looks _ill_ now. “Someone found out.”

After a moment, David's joined by a sea of red and white; all of them are people he'd call his friends, some are taller, some shorter, but all of them just as much muscle as he is. The tallest of the group stands in front of him and leans close. His speaks in a low tone but the hallway is so silent that nearly everyone can hear him anyway. “What's the matter, Karofsky?” he drawls, cocking his head to the side. “Some guy lock your balls in a closet?”

Kurt inhales sharply and clutches Blaine's arm tightly, but it's Santana who reacts the most violently. Blaine's eyes dart between her, David, and Kurt; Santana's eyes narrow and she looks _beyond livid_. Brittany emerges from a classroom across the hall with impeccable timing, and it takes Santana half a second to make a move. “Brit!” she calls out loudly, her voice ridiculously cheerful and sugar-coated. Brittany looks up and Santana crosses the hallway in two strides, tugging Brittany into a heated kiss.

The attention of the hallway shifts from David to the girls and the tension doubles. It's a long moment before Santana breaks the kiss, but when she does, Brittany's smiling. “Walk me to lunch?” Santana asks. Brittany merely nods and lets Santana take her pinky first and then, after a moment's thought, her hand. Santana breezes by them but stops short just after she passes them, spinning on her heel abruptly. “Richmond,” she drawls, addressing the tall football player boxing David against his locker, “don't you have somewhere else to be right now? Like, I don't know, maybe dating your cousin?”

Richmond's eyes narrow but he pushes himself off of the locker and away from David, turning to face Santana. “I'd watch it if I were you, Lopez,” he counters. “Girls and queers aren't exactly a good defense against us.”

“Oh please,” she snaps, rolling her eyes. “Lima Heights Adjacent. Know what that means? Razorblades,” she finishes, gesturing to her hair.

Richmond takes a second, looking over at Brittany, before he responds. “This school's gonna eat you alive,” he tells her, voice dangerously low.

“I'd like to see it try,” she says resolutely. “Now scram like the pack of stray dogs you are.” There's a moment where Richmond hesitates, but he gestures to the rest of his followers and they make their way down the hall. Blaine turns to look back at David but he's gone, the ugly markings still glaring on his locker. Santana doesn't let Brittany escort her to the cafeteria but instead marches over to Kurt and Blaine, eyes flaming. “How the hell did people find out?” she hisses angrily.

“I don't know,” Kurt says imploringly, speaking quietly to avoid being overheard. “None of us would have said anything. Where did he _go_?” He whips out his phone, texting frantically.

“You didn't have to do that, Santana,” Blaine says quietly. “You didn't have to come out just because he was --”

“Yeah, I know,” she snaps. “But you know what? Stuff like this,” she says, gesturing at the locker, “it's bullshit. And I am _so_ tired of it. Time to do things Auntie Tana's way.”

Blaine smiles a little at her. “That's my girl.” He looks past her, though, when Brittany reappears in front of David's locker, a bucket of cleaning supplies in her hand. A warmth floods his chest and he knows it must show on his face because both Santana and Kurt turn to look at her, their expressions slowly mirroring Blaine's. And as one, they silently move across the hall to join her, each picking up a rag and working viciously to wipe the locker clean, scrubbing until their hands are raw and blackened and the ink is gone.

The hallway slowly starts to empty the closer it gets to the end of lunch period, and by the time they're finished, it's just them with moments to spare before the bell to sixth period. Their work finished, all four of them sit on the floor in front of Kurt's locker, knees drawn up against their chests. “So what now?” Blaine asks.

“I have art next period,” Brittany says thoughtfully. “I could make him a card.”

The boys smile at her but it's Santana who beams and answers her. “That's a great idea, Brit-Brit.” She starts to push herself off of the floor and then looks back down at the boys. “What about you guys?”

“We should find Dave,” Kurt says quietly. “He hasn't responded to any of my messages. I... I'm worried.”

“I have gym with him this period,” Blaine offers. “Want me to go there and see if he's camping out in the locker room?”

Kurt nods. “If he's not in any of his classes by the last bell, are you okay with skipping glee rehearsal to look for him?” The other three agree and then they're all going their separate ways, the boys a little reluctant to leave each other.

The locker room is empty by the time Blaine gets there. Sighing, he starts to twist the combination to his locker to change into his clothes when he feels a hand grip his shoulder and spin him around --

“Happy?” Azimio spits furiously, waving a bunch of multicolored papers in front of Blaine's face. “This is _your_ fault, you and fucking fairy Hummel --”

“Don't call him that,” Blaine snaps automatically.

Azimio slams an open hand against the locker, boxing Blaine in. “I'll call him whatever I want. You gave him these. This is your fault,” he rambles, throwing the papers in Blaine's face. Blaine blinks and shakes his head, gaze following some of the papers as they fall to the floor; it takes him a second to realize that they're pamphlets, some with the PFLAG label, others with titles like _Boys Will Be Boys_. Blaine closes his eyes and exhales. And now that Azimio finally has a scapegoat, he can't seem to stop talking. “You know what that was like for me?” he continues, and it's that particular question that makes Blaine open his eyes again. Azimio still looks angry, looming over Blaine, but he also looks confused, _hurt_. “To go into my buddy's gym bag and find those, and then have the rest of the team snatch 'em out of my hands before I could do anything about it?”

“It was an accident,” Blaine breathes. “It -- oh my god, it was an accident.”

“Yeah, well this isn't,” Azimio growls, raising a fist.

Blaine closes his eyes and he's not seventeen anymore; he's fourteen and outside of a dance hearing his ribs crack and slurs murmured into his ear, his friend screaming in pain next to him -- Kurt's face flashes on his irises and his stomach drops out. He's seventeen, he's Blaine, he's at McKinley, he's got Kurt, Kurt is so much more; Kurt is his _boyfriend_ , and Blaine is here because he's trying to be _brave_...

“He's your best friend,” Blaine says, far braver than he actually feels. He opens his eyes and watches Azimio's swing falter. “I -- this is hard for you, I get that.”

“No, man, you don't,” Azimio says, shaking his head. Whether he'd aim to take another swing at Blaine or not, Blaine doesn't know because someone is pulling Azimio away from him roughly.

“Lay off, Z.” Blaine huffs out and watches David step between them, fists clenched.

“I don't get you, man,” Azimio rants, gesturing wildly. “You were ready to do his face in before Hummel came back, and the next thing I know you're wearing fucking berets and telling me to lay off of losers and then --” He stops, laughing incredulously. “And then you go and date Santana 'I'm a closet dyke' Lopez --”

“Don't --” Blaine starts, but David cuts him off.

“Don't call Santana that,” David all but growls. “She's a lesbian, not a dyke.”

“Why the hell does it even matter?” Azimio says, and he's full on _yelling_ now. “I'm supposed to be your b -- we're supposed to have each others' bac -- _Fuck_ , I can't even have a normal conversation with you now because you're fucking _gay_.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” David asks, shaking his head in confusion.

“It means I can't say anything without it sounding like a fucking _come-on_ ,” Azimio says, clearly frustrated. “Do you know what that was like for me, to have the guys see me with those and find out about you that way? For _me_ to find out about you that way? Do you know what we're all thinking now? We're all sitting here wondering which one of them got to you and if we should start showering at home --”

“Oh my god,” David groans, throwing his hands up. “That's -- you're a fucking idiot, Z. I didn't _catch_ being gay like it's some fucking disease. It's just who I am. And fucking -- god.” He stops and turns to look at Blaine for the first time, eyes flashing. “Hummel was right. You can't be out here without every guy thinking you're a peeping tom.”

It takes Blaine a second to register Azimio's unspoken fear; he makes the mistake of meeting Azimio's eyes instead of David's, and then the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them: “You're afraid he's in love with you.”

David blinks, surprised. Azimio has the same reaction for a split second and then fury fills his face; it takes him less than three seconds to cross the space between them and dart around David, his fist poised in the air over Blaine's face again. Blaine doesn't even have time to blink or move his hands to his face, doesn't have time to duck or react beyond his jaw dropping open --

David steps between them again at lightning speed, costing him any chance he might have had at defending himself. Azimio whips around defensively; his fist collides with David's face.

Blaine gasps, clamping a hand over his mouth, and watches as David rebounds, hand gingerly touching his face. Azimio freezes, momentarily stunned at what he's just done; he meets David's eyes for a brief moment, and then he's out the door without another word.

“Oh my god,” Blaine fumbles out, rushing forward. “I'm so sorry -- I didn't mean for that --”

“Don't,” David says abruptly, holding up a hand to keep Blaine at a distance. “Just... don't.”

Blaine obeys but fidgets on the spot, eyes darting around the room. “Let me find Coach Beiste or take you to the nurse or _something_ \--” David shakes his head, examining his face in the mirror. Blaine shifts uncomfortably. “We were looking for you; Kurt must've texted dozens of times --”

“I turned my phone off,” David says shortly. “Figured it'd be enough to deal with people throwing things me in my face -- literally, in some cases,” he laughs bitterly. Blaine bites his lip as David spits out into the sink (Blaine swears he sees blood against the white porcelain). “Tell Santana thanks for me, will you?” He's out the door before Blaine can agree or stop him.

By the time the last bell rings and he finally gets a chance to see Kurt, to talk to him, Blaine is anxious and on edge and just plain exhausted. “Hey,” Kurt greets, his face as anxious as Blaine feels as they meet up outside of the choir room. “Any luck?”

“Yeah,” Blaine sighs. “Locker room. He didn't stay long though -- stuff went down with Azimio.”

“Are you okay?” Kurt asks, surveying Blaine's frame worriedly.

“I'm fine,” Blaine laughs even though it's entirely inappropriate to laugh and he doesn't really find any of it funny. “Better than Karofsky, anyway.”

“What happened?” Kurt asks, biting his lip.

“I --” Blaine sighs as his phone goes off. “Hang on.” He glances down at the screen and finds a new text message from David -- _bleachers_ \-- and raises his eyebrows. “I can show you better than I can tell you. Come on.”

Kurt allows Blaine to drag him away from the choir room, through the halls of McKinley and out to the football field. Practice is in full swing and the Cheerios are stretching on the sidelines while they wait for Coach Corcoran; Santana is flirting _outrageously_ with Brittany, casting daggers at the guys out of the field every so often. Blaine looks up and finds David at the top of the bleachers, elbows resting on his knees. “Up there,” Blaine says gently, tugging at Kurt's hand. Kurt turns to follow him, his eyes widening when he sees David's figure.

“Oh my god,” Kurt breathes once they've reached him. “Azimio did that to you?”

“Yeah,” David huffs out, shrugging. Oddly, he smiles. “Guess it's karma or something, right? For what I did to you?”

“No,” Kurt says fiercely, sitting down in front of him. “I -- what you did to me wasn't okay. But neither is this. You don't _deserve_ to be treated like this, Dave.”

David looks up at Kurt gratefully; Blaine takes a seat next to him. “You're not out on the field,” Blaine observes.

David snorts. “I think it's pretty clear they don't want me out there.”

It's quiet for a moment before Kurt ventures, “Are you going to come back?”

“Stupid to transfer now,” David mumbles. “Six months left in the school year and then I can get the hell out of here. I get why you want to leave now.”

“There's more to it than that,” Kurt argues, but he lets the point die quickly. “You're not going to stay in Lima? Or Ohio?”

David shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe.”

“Where do you want to go?” Blaine asks.

“I dunno. I was thinking about Florida State --” David mumbles.

“You applied to Florida?” Kurt asks, surprised.

“I probably don't have the grades to get in,” David admits. “But there was always the chance I'd get a football scholarship.” He shifts his gaze back to the field. “Guess not.”

Blaine watches as something twists in Kurt's eyes. “I wasn't... I wasn't really talking about here, though,” Kurt admits. “I meant the meetings.”

David looks back at him, eyebrows arched. “Why do you wanna know?”

“I just...” Kurt sighs and twists his scarf nervously in his hands. “I think it's good for you, for all of us. And it's a way for us to show you -- and Santana and Brittany,” he adds, gesturing down at the field. “It's a good way for us to prove that there are people in your corner, there are people willing to back you up. I can invite more people --” David's eyes widen and Kurt flushes, backtracking a little. “I just meant the rest of glee club, my step-mom. They'd be supportive.”

“I don't know if you noticed, but the rest of your glee club pretty much hates me still,” David points out.

Kurt shakes his head resolutely. “You'd be surprised. At the end of the day, we're a family. You can be a part of that.”

“Are you recruiting him?” Blaine asks, grinning and fighting back a laugh. Kurt bites his lip and looks at David, and it's a split second before they're _all_ laughing.

“Karofsky! What're you doin' up there?” All three boys stop and watch Coach Beiste making her way up the bleachers to where they're sitting. David blanches and shifts uncomfortably, shifting his gaze to his feet. Kurt moves to sit next to Blaine. “Why isn't your ass on the field?” Kurt inhales sharply and Blaine reaches over to take his hand. There's a moment's hesitation before David finally looks up. “Jesus,” Coach Beiste hisses, her expression softening. “Who gave you the shiner?”

“No one,” David mumbles.

Coach Beiste doesn't seem to believe him but lets it go. “And you're skipping practice because?”

“Because the rest of the team doesn't want me out on the field,” David grits out as calmly as he can.

“What?” Coach Besite asks, confused. “Why?”

Blaine glances over at David, wondering exactly how he's going to approach that, but he doesn't wonder for long; David reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and extends his arm, a colorful, laminated piece of paper between his fingers. Kurt watches with him as the card transfers hands, and Blaine's stomach clenches as he realizes what it is.

“PFLAG?” Coach Beiste reads, brow furrowing. “Isn't that -- oh.” She does a double take and looks from the card to David, contemplating for a moment. It's not a long wait, though, before she's handing the card back, squaring her shoulders. “Get changed,” she instructs. “When you're out on the field, we're taking a knee and talking about being a _team_ ,” she emphasizes. “And then we're going to play some goddamn football.”

“They don't want me there --” David starts to remind her.

“ _I_ want you there,” she says vehemently. “And in case you forgot, I'm the coach. So what I say goes.”

David looks up at her, blinking, and then smiles a little, coloring. “Yes, Coach.” He starts to rise and follow her down the bleachers when Kurt lays a hand on his shoulder. David turns to look at him, eyebrow raised.

“Come back next week,” Kurt pleads quietly. “You _need_ us, Dave.”

David considers him for a moment and then nods briefly before making his descent. “I'm glad you did that,” Blaine owns once David's out of earshot.

“You think it's a good idea, don't you?” Kurt asks fervently, turning and resting his hands on Blaine's knees.

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees, nodding. “I do. You should have heard him in the locker room. He's been listening. What you've said to him -- it's stuck.”

“Really?” Kurt asks, flushing.

“Yeah,” Blaine says with a smile.

“I --” Kurt hesitates, squirming. Blaine moves his hands to rest on Kurt's, and the gesture seems to relax Kurt. “I think we can do more. But it's... you're not going to be comfortable with it.”

“Try me,” Blaine offers.

“I want us to hold hands.”

“Isn't that sort of what we're doing now?” Blaine laughs, squeezing Kurt's hands under his.

“No,” Kurt clarifies, shaking his head. “Tomorrow, the rest of the week, more often. I want us to hold hands in the hallways.”

Blaine blanches and inhales sharply. “Kurt, that is _not_ a good idea --”

“Yes,” Kurt insists, squeezing back, “it is. Think about what Santana did today. If we aren't afraid to do that, if we just _hold hands_ , Blaine, think about what that does. It normalizes it. It draws attention away from Dave for a while.”

“Are you willing to take the risk that comes with it?” Blaine asks seriously. “You _know_ why we don't do PDA here. You know how dangerous it is.”

“I do,” Kurt admits, nodding. “But I think... I think we can do this. I think it'll be okay. We're not alone anymore, Blaine.”

And it's _that_ \-- the knowledge that he's not alone -- that convinces Blaine, makes him believe Kurt, makes him _want_ to hold Kurt's hand in front of hundreds of homophobes, makes him want to be _brave_. “Well then,” Blaine says with a smile, rising from the bleachers and offering a hand out to Kurt, “no time like the present, right?”

Kurt smiles and takes his hand, letting Blaine pull him to his feet. “Right.”


	3. Santana Lopez

**Thursday, 22 December, 2011**

The house is quiet -- too quiet for Blaine, who knows he's alone but doesn't like it -- and the hour is late. He'd venture a guess at around one; he's been tossing and turning for the better part of an hour or so. His parents won't be back for days and even though his winter break has been filled with friends and fun and Kurt, at night, he's still alone.

He tenses when he hears the doorbell ring. The sound echoes through the empty house and as it dissipates, a silence even more eery takes its place. He waits, and when the doorbell rings again a minute later, he resigns, crawling out of bed slowly. He's careful not to let the stairs creak on his way down, but when he peeks through the peephole, he relaxes and breathes a little easier. “Santana,” he huffs out as he opens the door. “You scared me; I thought --”

“Liquor, Frisky Pants,” she snaps, breezing past him into the house. Blaine whirls around, trying to keep up with her, and has to jump back when she deposits a suitcase, a duffel bag, and a backpack at his feet. Blinking, he shuts the door and locks it quickly, nearly tripping over her luggage on his way to the kitchen.

The liquor cabinet isn't difficult to find with its glass doors, and by the time Blaine catches up, she's already pulled the door halfway open. Darting forward, he reaches out a hand and slams it shut with his palm. She narrows her eyes at him dangerously. “Santana, what are you doing?”

“Anderson,” she grits out, “let me into the liquor cabinet or I swear to god --”

“ _No_ ,” Blaine says firmly. “Tell me what's going on. You're upset. What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” she snaps. “And nothing's happening now, either, since you've decided to act like someone out of an after-school special.”

Blaine sighs but takes a moment to really _look_ at Santana; her eyeliner is slightly smudged and her eyes are a little bloodshot. “You've been crying,” he observes.

“Right, because as a cold, heartless bitch, that's totally something I can do,” she lies with a roll of her eyes. “Liquor, Curly. I needs it.”

“No,” Blaine says again, just as firmly. “Santana, what happened? You came here for a reason --”

“To gets me some booze,” she explains, reaching for the handle again.

Blaine bats her hand away, and as she pulls back, he can smell the alcohol on her breath. “You're already drunk,” he points out. “I can smell it all over you --”

“Brilliant, Einstein,” she drawls. “Now go run our nation or join the peace corps or something else equally as useful with that big brain of yours and _let me into your liquor cabinet_.”

“'Tana.” It's the first time he's ever used a nickname with her and he can tell it catches her off guard. He knows Santana well enough to know when she's actually upset about something, and he's seen her drunk before. The two combined means that Blaine just has to wait it out; he knows what a drunk Santana is like. “I'm only going to ask you this one more time. What happened? Why are you here?”

Santana blinks and then swallows, her entire body seeming to weight down under Blaine's insistence, and then, very quietly, she says, “My mom found out.”

“Your mom... found out,” Blaine says slowly, mind racing to catch up. “Your mom -- _oh_.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Santana says, jaw clenching.

“It didn't go well, I take it?” Blaine asks gently, removing his hand from the cabinet now that Santana's backed away from it. And then she keeps backing away, out of the kitchen and up the stairs and Blaine is racing to follow her. “Santana --”

She whips around once she's entered his bedroom and starts _raving_ at him, eyes flashing and hands flying. “No es tanto que soy latina y que vivo en Lima Heights Adjacent, no. Tenía que ser una lesbiana, también. Soy una _perdedora_ nata. Y ni siquiera mis _padres_ me pueden aceptar.”

Blaine blinks and rubs his fingers over his temple. He knows a grand total of probably twenty words in Spanish (he can count to ten, say hello and good-bye and thank you, and knows a few useless words like 'cat' and 'library') and none of them are anything remotely close to what Santana's just said. “Santana, I don't understand --”

She ignores him entirely, pacing the room. “Trato de hacer lo debido, y cada vez explota en mi cara. Todos me odian, incluyendo mi propia madre. ¿Sabes lo que ella me dijo, cuando algunas personas le dijieron que me habían visto besando a Brittany?” Blaine stares blankly at her, eyes wide with panic and he wants to help, he wants to listen, he _does_ , but she's not giving him anything to go on. “Ella me dijo que ella sabía que yo no era nada buena. Me dijo que lo que estoy haciendo no es natural.”

It's then that Blaine starts to comprehend what Santana's saying. “Natural,” he repeats in English. “She said that you weren't -- that what you're doing isn't natural?” he guesses.

“Not born this way, apparently,” Santana says coldly, finally switching to English. “And no daughter of hers was going to be a fucking _dyke_.”

Blaine inhales sharply. “She _said_ that?”

“And then told me to leave. Said I should be grateful she gave me time to pack my things,” Santana says bitterly.

Blaine remembers her depositing her luggage downstairs and- “She _kicked you out_?” Blaine breathes.

Santana's jaw twitches and she nods stiffly. “Guess it's time to see what Miss Lima Heights Adjacent is made of.”

“Santana,” Blaine says in a strained voice, reaching out for her. She recoils and folds her arms over her chest, biting her lip. Blaine tries again, taking a step closer and reaching out for her arm again. “'Tana,” he says gently.

She meets his eyes for a brief moment and Blaine knows that it's not the alcohol kicking in when she finally launches herself at him, fists bundling up in Blaine's shirt as she _sobs_ violently. “ _Oh_ ,” he breathes, bringing his arms up to encircle her frame, hand cradling her head against his chest. “Oh honey, I'm so sorry.”

And for once, Santana seems to have run out of words because she just stands there and cries into Blaine's chest. Slowly, he manages to shuffle toward the bed and settles them both down onto it, taking care to keep her pulled close to him. He rocks her gently, making a slight shushing sound, when she starts to babble against him. “What does that even _mean_ , I'm not natural? I'm not a fucking drone --”

Blaine shakes his head, nose ruffling her hair a little. “I don't think she meant it like that --”

“I know how she meant it,” Santana groans, squeezing her eyes shut as more tears fall. “But why did she have to say that? Why did my mom have to be the one to say it?”

“Santana,” Blaine says firmly, pulling away from her slightly and searching her eyes. “You're not wrong. What you're doing isn't wrong. Who you are isn't wrong.”

She blinks but his words seem to stem her tears a little. “Then why did she kick me out?”

“I don't know,” Blaine sighs. “But -- here, just stay here, okay? Don't move from this spot.”

“Where are you going?” she whines, clutching at his hand as he starts to rise from the bed. “Back to the kitchen? I thought you didn't want to get me drunk.”

“I don't,” Blaine says, huffing out a little impatiently. “I'm going to get you a glass of water and some aspirin. Just... wait here. Can you manage that?”

“Where am I going to go?” she asks.

It's that simple question that breaks him. He exhales sharply and makes his way back to her, kneeling in front of the bed and taking her head in his hands. “I'm going into my bathroom,” he promises. “It's just down the hall. I'll be back in literally forty-five seconds. You're going to stay here because I want you to.”

She stares at him for a moment before hiccuping and then says, “I'm counting. One, two, three...”

Blaine pushes himself to his knees, darting to the bathroom down the hall and grabbing what he needs, filling the glass and making his way back to Santana. He can't have been gone for more than thirty seconds, but Santana doesn't even seem to notice he's back. She's not counting either. “Under forty-five?” he asks, handing her the glass and two pills.

“I don't know,” she says miserably, swallowing the pills with a large gulp of water. “I lost count after sixteen. What comes after sixteen?”

“Seventeen,” Blaine says patiently. He takes the glass from her and sets it on the nightstand. “Why don't you take a shower, or a bath?” he offers kindly. “It'll make you feel a little better. And then we can talk more when you get out.”

“Okay,” she says quietly, resigning. “I -- can I stay here tonight? Just for tonight, I promise --”

“You can stay until after New Year's, if you want,” Blaine offers. “Go shower, okay? I'll leave your bags in the guest bedroom so you can change.” She shuffles out of the room, shoulders hunched, and Blaine groans, falling back onto the mattress and staring up at the ceiling. He sends out a quick mass text -- _S.O.S._ \-- and tries to clear his head, struggles to think. Once he hears the shower running, he retrieves her possessions -- literally everything she owns packed up into three bags -- and sets them in the guest bedroom.

The shower clicks off twenty minutes later and it's another ten before she's rejoining him in his bedroom; she's clad in a tank top and an extremely tiny pair of shorts, tousling the wet strands of her hair dry with a towel. She hasn't bothered to reapply her make-up and she just looks so _tiny_ , so frail and sad and _alone_...

Blaine rises from the bed and rifles through his closet for a minute, unearthing a blue hoodie and handing it to Santana. “Here.”

“Oh my god, they're just boobs, Anderson --”

“No,” he laughs. “It's -- just put it on.” She raises an eyebrow skeptically and Blaine can tell she's already started to sober up. After a moment's hesitation, she tugs the hoodie on, the blue actually adding some vibrancy to her appearance. “It's my comfort sweater,” he says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got it when I first transferred to Dalton -- wearing it just usually makes me feel better.”

A little bit of brightness makes its way back into Santana's eyes. “Thanks,” she says quietly. She doesn't hold the gaze for long and instead devotes herself to inspecting Blaine's room, fingers tracing over the various picture frames. On his dresser sit two photographs, one of him with the Warblers and the other of him with New Directions. His desk has a photograph of their original intimate group of five from PFLAG (Santana's fingers linger over this one the longest). But it's the photograph on his nightstand that seems to capture her attention the most, one of him and Kurt at prom from junior year.

When she finally settles back down on Blaine's bed, she crosses her legs Indian-style and looks down at her lap. Blaine joins her, mirroring the position and reaching out for her hand. “Please don't tell Brit,” she says nervously. “I -- I'll tell her. I will, myself. Just not tonight and not when I'm like this.”

Blaine bites his lip but silently agrees to the request. “I'm sorry,” he says finally. “I'm sorry I can't be more useful. My parents aren't the greatest about my sexuality but they didn't do what your mom did.”

“You're fine,” Santana says quietly. “You're letting me stay for a while. That's more than I'd hoped for, honestly.”

Blaine cocks his head to the side. “Why'd you come here?” he questions. “I get not going to Brittany's, but... why me? Why not someone else?”

Santana shifts uncomfortably but lifts her gaze to meet Blaine's eyes. “I didn't know where else to go.”

Blaine still isn't sure he understands but he lets it go, squeezing Santana's hand. “We'll figure something out,” he promises.

She nods, probably just to placate him, but after a moment she seems to grow a little braver and reaches her hand out a little further, fingers falling and tracing the scar on Blaine's arm again. “How'd you get that?”

Blaine's chest tightens a little -- well, a lot, really -- because he doesn't share easily; it took him months to tell Kurt, and even longer to even allude to it with David. But something tells him that this is okay, that he _needs_ to tell Santana, that it'll help. He needs to show her she's not alone. “I was fourteen,” he starts shakily. “I'd just come out and took a friend of mine to this dance and we... got the crap beat out of us.”

“A boy?” she asks. “You took a boy?” Blaine nods. “But,” she says, bewildered. She glances over at the photograph on his nightstand. “You took Kurt to prom last year. You slow-danced with him in front of the entire school.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says simply. “I did.”

Santana looks back at him, eyes wide, and she exhales sharply. “Jesus fucking Christ, Blainers,” she hisses. “You _are_ going to marry the prom queen, aren't you?”

The rational part of Blaine tells him to default to his defense mechanism, to laugh her off the same way he did last time. But the other part of him -- the irrational and ridiculously emotional and over-eager part of him -- knows that if he tells her the truth, it's another way to connect, another way to get through to her. And Santana needs that right now, badly. “Yeah,” Blaine says softly. “I probably am.”

Santana sniffs as fresh tears fall down her face but she's smiling now. “I still call being resident hag or whatever the title is,” she teases, laughing a little.

Blaine smiles, laughing with her, and reaches out to push her damp hair from her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it some more? Or do you just want to sleep?”

Santana bites her lip but meets his gaze, debating. “Sleep,” she says finally. “I -- maybe more, in the morning. But right now I just want to sleep.” Blaine nods and leans forward, pressing his lips to her forehead.

It's early, not too early, but around nine when Blaine's doorbell rings again. He grumbles sleepily but makes his way downstairs, opening the door. “What happened?” Kurt breathes, rushing forward and grabbing at Blaine's arms. “I got your text. I came as soon as I could --”

There's a sound behind him and both of them turn to look at David, who's standing awkwardly in the doorway. “I got the same text.”

Kurt whips around to look at Blaine. “Is everything okay?” he asks tentatively. “Is it about your dad?”

“No,” Blaine says, shaking his head and closing the door behind David. “It's -- follow me upstairs-- it's Santana.”

“Santana?” Kurt and David say together. There's a pause, and then David continues, “She okay? Something go down in Lima Heights Adjacent?”

“Okay, has anyone actually _been_ there?” Kurt snaps. “Is it really that bad?”

“I've been to Santana's house,” David says. “Trust me, it's bad.”

“It doesn't have anything to do with Lim -- just listen,” Blaine urges, stopping at the top of the stairs and turning to face them. He lowers his voice. “Her mom found out about her and Brittany.”

“And she came here?” Kurt asks incredulously. “Why would she do that, unless -- _oh_.” His eyes grow wide as he looks to Blaine for affirmation. “Tell me that didn't happen.”

“It did,” Blaine sighs miserably.

“I'm still lost here,” David cuts in. “Care to fill me in?”

“Santana's parents kicked her out,” Kurt says nervously.

“They -- what?” David asks, aghast.

“She doesn't have anywhere else to go,” Blaine says imploringly. “I don't know what to do, that's why I asked you guys to come.”

“Let's figure this out then,” Kurt says determinedly, gesturing for Blaine to lead the way.

Blaine takes the cue and ushers them down the hall to the guest bedroom. He knocks softly on the door, opens it just a crack, and says, “'Tana?”

“Yeah?” she mumbles. Blaine pokes his head in the door and finds her still curled under the covers, Dalton hoodie still hanging loosely on her frame. Kurt and David follow him slowly into the room; Santana's eyes widen and she sits up in bed, shaking her head. “No,” she says fiercely. “I asked you not to say anything --”

“You asked me not to tell Brittany,” Blaine corrects. “And I haven't. I texted them before you asked me that; we want to _help_ , Santana.”

“Help how?” Her eyes are narrow and suspicious but she softens a little once Kurt sits next to her, his hand finding hers.

“We need to figure out where you're going to stay until next fall,” Blaine explains.

Santana squirms uncomfortably but Kurt doesn't let go of her hand. “What are my options?”

“Well if Brittany's out,” Blaine starts, “option two is that you stay here, which, like I said last night, you can do until after New Year's. After that, we'd have to talk to my parents. I can't imagine my dad would be against it, though. He'll probably be over the moon at the idea of having a girl staying here.”

Kurt casts him a sympathetic look and Blaine knows he wants nothing more than to comfort him, but Kurt makes the right choice and stays seated, firmly holding Santana's hand. “Wait,” Santana interrupts. “Are you saying he'd think I was your girlfriend? Or he'd hope I will be?” Blaine makes a face and Santana's eyes narrow. “No,” she says resolutely.

“Santana,” Kurt starts, fighting to be calm, “don't rule it out yet. It might your most viable option until we start college.”

“Honestly,” Blaine adds, trying to placate her. “I'm used to this sort of thing --”

“No,” she says again, much more firmly. “Isn't the whole point of all of this,” she demands, gesturing around at them, “the meetings and coming out and being kicked out -- isn't the whole point that we're not in the closet, that we're proud of who we are?” Kurt smiles a little and nods. “If I stay here and your dad has those kinds of expectations, it's more of the same,” she reasons. “It's more bullshit. I'm done. I'm done hiding.”

Blaine grins and settles down on the floor in front of her, nudging her legs playfully. “That's my girl.”

“Option three,” Kurt continues, capturing Santana's attention, “is that you stay with me.”

“And become what, Santana Hummel?” she teases, grinning at Kurt.

Kurt laughs. “Well you're eighteen now, so unfortunately that rules out both the foster system and my dad adopting you.”

“Plus, if anyone's taking Kurt's name...” Blaine says, trailing off. Kurt looks down at him, eyes shining, and Santana grins victoriously.

“Anyway,” Kurt says, trying to refocus and failing miserably as his eyes keep darting back over to Blaine, “I'm not sure how much of an option it actually is. There's not a lot of room but I'm sure my dad would be more than happy to take you. I'd just have to sit down with Rachel beforehand --”

“Rachel?” Blaine questions. “What does Rachel have to do with anything? She's not living with you guys. Oh my god, can you imagine her and Finn living together? It's a recipe for disaster --”

“No,” Santana says shortly. “Frankenteen lost his v-card to me. Yentl wouldn't be happy about me living with him.”

“Rachel's not totally unreasonable,” Blaine argues. “If we sit down and explain it to her before you move in --”

“No,” Santana says again. “It's -- the Berry fruity problem isn't really an issue -- like I even care. I just...” She shifts away from Kurt a little, who stares at her curiously. “I wouldn't feel right taking advantage of your dad like that,” she admits. “He's a nice guy --”

“He'd _want_ to help you, Santana,” Kurt assures her.

She closes her eyes but doesn't argue. “What else?”

“Well,” Kurt says with a sigh, “I mean, we could talk to the rest of glee club, but something tells me --” Santana shakes her head violently and Kurt nods knowingly. “I figured as much.”

“Are those my only options?” she asks quietly. “Other than a -- a shelter, or living out on --”

“You can stay with me.”

All three of them turn to look at David, who, true to character, has been standing in the corner quietly, watching the scene unfold. He clears his throat and straightens a little, nodding. “You can stay with me. You've met my dad, you know what he's like. He wouldn't have a problem with it. We've got room.”

Santana surveys him curiously for a moment, considering, and then looks from one boy to the next, weighing her options. Finally, she says, quietly but clearly, “Dave. I'll stay with Dave.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow but Blaine thinks he understands: Santana's never been afraid to stand up to David. She kept his secret and bearded for him, helped him make amends with Kurt; she agreed to go to PFLAG meetings with him and stepped up to the plate when he was outed. In a really, really, extremely weird way, they're almost sort of... friends.

Kurt leans over and kisses her forehead -- the same gesture Blaine had made the night before -- and moves from the bed to start repacking her suitcase. Between the four of them, it only takes a few minutes to repack her belongings (all she owns into three bags). Kurt and Blaine usher them downstairs and while David loads Santana's things into his car, she turns in the doorway and wraps her arms around Blaine tightly, hooking her chin over his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispers so only he can hear. “You're a really good friend.”

Blaine smiles into her hair and lets her go. When he shuts the door after her, he rests his head against the back of it, closing his eyes. “Are you okay?” Kurt asks gently, closing the distance between them and rubbing at Blaine's back.

“Do you think your dad and Carole would mind if I stayed for Christmas?” Blaine mumbles miserably.

“Probably not,” Kurt muses. “Why, though? I thought your parents were coming home tomorrow.”

Blaine shakes his head and finally turns to face Kurt. “They got snowed in and decided to stay until after New Year's.”

“Of course you can stay,” Kurt soothes. “Come on, I'll help you pack a bag.”

He starts to make his way back upstairs but Blaine reaches out and grabs his hand, tugging him back. “Hey,” he says quietly, settling his hands on Kurt's hips. “Thanks. For just... for not forcing me to talk about my dad, for helping with Santana -- all of it.”

Kurt smiles and hums pleasantly, settling into Blaine's embrace and backing him against the front door a little more firmly. “I think Carole hung up some mistletoe,” he muses. “I was thinking we could use that to our advantage.”

“Excellent,” Blaine enthuses, tugging Kurt closer. “I say we start practicing now.”

“But there's no mistletoe,” Kurt argues.

“That's why it's called _practicing_ ,” he emphasizes. “I seem to recall that you know how to do that quite well, actually --”

“Shut up,” Kurt laughs, pressing his lips to Blaine's. They kiss for several long moments, and Kurt's quiet again when they pull apart. “Do you think Santana will be okay?”

“She's got a thick skin,” Blaine reasons, rubbing at Kurt's arm affectionately. “She'll be okay. Karofsky'll look after her.”

“We look after our own,” Kurt agrees with a smile.


	4. Brittany S. Pierce

**Thursday 9 February 2011**

Blaine rests his head against the piano keys, the discordant _clunking_ sound resonating through the empty choir room. It shouldn't be this hard. He's picked songs to sing to Kurt before that haven't been too theatrical or too suggestive or overtly sexual. But Valentine's Day is next week and Blaine figures he kind of owes Kurt this song after last year's disaster. Every selection he's made thus far, however, has been shy of being _just right_ , and Blaine is starting to get frustrated.

Sighing, he packs up his sheet music in his book bag and shuffles out of the choir room. There's still half of lunch period left; if he hurries, he might still be able to catch Kurt before next period. He stops, though, when he spots a figure stretched out on the floor of the dance studio. It takes him a second to recognize it as Brittany, clad in a loose shirt and leggings and two pairs of leg warmers (one for her legs and one for her arms). She's got both legs stretched wide in front of her, hands grabbing at her feet, with an open textbook in between. “Hey Brit,” he greets warmly, sauntering into the dance studio. “What are you doing?”

“Studying,” Brittany says, a frown on her face. “Cosine is opposite over adjacent -- no, hypotenuse over -- _ugh_ ,” she groans, falling backwards so her back rests flat on the floor.

“You're having trouble, I take it?” he asks, settling down on the floor next to her.

“Yes,” Brittany whines. “I'm usually good at math. Why is this so hard? I hate geometry. I hate it.”

“I feel your pain,” he offers, settling down next to her, staring at the ceiling. “I'm actually pretty good at math but right now I can't find a song to sing to Kurt for Valentine's Day.”

“You're not going to fail glee club because of that, though,” Brittany mumbles miserably.

“You're failing?” Blaine asks, looking over at her.

“I wasn't,” Brittany sighs. “I wasn't failing anything, actually. I don't have the best grades but at least I was passing. And then...”

“And then?” Blaine prompts.

“And then geometry and trigonometry with triangles like your eyebrows.” Blaine frowns a little, fighting to keep his hands from covering his face. “I just don't get it. And if I don't pass the rest of my exams for the year, then I don't pass math and I don't graduate.”

“You might not _graduate_?” Blaine asks, aghast. Brittany nods sadly. “I could tutor you.”

Brittany looks over at him hopefully. “Would you?”

“Yeah,” Blaine offers with a smile. “Do you want me to come over after school?”

“Sure.” She sits up and tugs Blaine with her, ruffling his curly hair as she does so. “Four o'clock?” Blaine nods and picks up her textbook, handing it off to her.

*****

When Blaine shows up at Brittany's door, promptly at four, a pretty blonde woman answers the door. “Hi,” he greets brightly. “I'm Blaine, Brittany's friend? I was supposed to help her with some homework.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Pierce says, flustered. “Yes, she called, mentioned you were coming -- come in, come in,” she invites, gesturing for Blaine to follow her. “I'm sorry she's not here yet; she went to pick up her little sister from soccer practice and then Jamie Lynn's swim practice got rescheduled. She should be home before five.”

“Oh,” Blaine says lamely, shifting uncomfortably in the hallway. “I can just come back later, if that's better --”

“No, no, you can stay, dear,” she says kindly, ushering him into the living room. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“I'm good, thanks,” Blaine answers with a smile, settling down on the couch. She bustles into the kitchen and returns with a fresh plate of cookies and a pitcher of lemonade anyway, setting them in front of him on the coffee table.

“So,” Mrs. Pierce starts, settling down next to him, “what are you helping her with?”

“Math,” Blaine says, accepting a glass from her. “She said she was having trouble.”

“Yes,” she says quietly. “It's --” She's quiet for a moment, surveying him, before she adds, “You're her friend, right? She -- she trusts you?”

“Yeah,” Blaine assures her, nodding. “We're friends. We're in glee club together, and PFLA --” He clamps his mouth shut here; he's not sure if Brittany's parents know, or even care, but he's not going to be the one to out her if she isn't.

It takes Mrs. Pierce a moment to catch up, but when she realizes what he's referring to, her eyes widen a little. “Oh!” she says happily. “You're Blaine, Blaine from PFLAG. Kurt's boyfriend.”

“Um, yeah,” Blaine laughs, flushing. “I'm sorry if I -- I didn't mean --”

“Oh, that's all right,” she says amicably, handing him a cookie. “We've known about Brittany for a long time. It's not a problem.”

“That's... really good of you,” he says quietly, trying not to think of his own father and instead thinking about Santana's mom. “Brittany's lucky to have you.”

“We're lucky to have her.” She stops talking abruptly and shifts uncomfortably, looking as if she's almost said too much. “Brittany's not dumb,” she says quietly. “Naive, maybe. But she's not dumb.”

“I never --” Blaine starts, looking uncomfortable.

“No, I know,” she cuts in, waving her hand. “But... there's something you should know. It might be helpful if you're planning on tutoring her.” Blaine raises his eyebrows, silently inviting her to continue. “When she was nine,” Mrs. Pierce says softly, “she was bright. She did well in school and was athletic. Top of her class, won awards, all of the teachers said she was one of the best students.”

“Really?” Blaine breathes quietly, eyes shining.

Her mother nods. “She won a spelling bee in the fourth grade, got top marks in creative writing. And then... there was an accident.” Her voice breaks a little and she looks down at her lap; and Blaine -- young, eager, helpful Blaine -- reaches over to rest his hand gently on hers. She looks up and him and smiles sadly. “She fell off of the balance beam in gymnastics, hit her head.”

“Jesus,” Blaine hisses, inhaling sharply. “How bad was it?”

“Could've been worse,” she says with a shrug. “She's alive and functioning mostly, but there was a little brain damage. She hasn't been the same.”

Blaine's brow furrows. “She's been passing,” he reasons. “I mean, I know her perception of things is a little... skewed...” Mrs. Pierce shakes her head sadly. “But not the same,” he sighs. “I understand.”

“I think it's still there,” she muses, “the ability to be -- not... smart, exactly. Bright? Thoughtful,” she decides.

“She is,” Blaine insists. “Brittany's -- she's observant. She's really good at reading people. That's a gift. I'm not that good at it -- observant, maybe, but not... not the best at picking up certain cues. Brittany's really good at that, I've noticed.”

“She's really good with people,” her mother agrees. “I just wish there was a way she could _apply_ that to something...”

“There's lots she could do. She could do social work or work with kids -- that's what I want to do, I want to teach.” She smiles at him.

“I just worry about her,” Mrs. Pierce admits quietly. “She's still dancing and helping Jamie Lynn with soccer and swimming -- at least she quit the Cheerios, but...”

“Brittany's careful,” Blaine assures her. “I've watched her choreographing with Mike -- safety's one of the first things they talk about. If they don't think it's safe enough to try, they don't do it.”

She nods but still seems... worried? Uncomfortable? Blaine's not sure what emotion is emanating from her but his words haven't seemed to placate or calm her. “Do you think you can help her?” she asks quietly. “I talked to her principal -- he said she needed to pass the rest of her exams to graduate.”

“I'm going to try,” Blaine offers.

“It's just... she'll be the first in the family to do it, if she does.”

“The first to what, graduate from high school?” Blaine asks blankly. The color that rushes to Mrs. Pierce's face is answer enough. “Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't --”

“It's okay,” she says quietly. “I just -- I really want this for her. Her sister can do it, but it just... I don't know if I could take it, if Brittany didn't graduate. I'd... I'd feel like it was my --”

“It's _not_ your fault,” Blaine says firmly. “What happened to her, it was an accident. Don't blame yourself.”

She smiles at him, patting his hand gently before pushing herself up off of the couch. “She'll be home soon, if you want to wait up in her room.” Blaine nods and starts to head up the stairs but Mrs. Pierce speaks again, momentarily halting him. “You're not allergic to cats, are you?” she calls.

“No,” he laughs. “I'm good.”

It's a fair question, he allows, when he enters Brittany's bedroom and Lord Tubbington greets him, meowing loudly and rubbing against Blaine's legs. And no matter where Blaine goes in the room -- the doorway, the dresser, the bed, the desk, the couch -- Lord Tubbington just seems to be _everywhere_ , against Blaine's legs and in his lap and licking his face.

In the few feline-free moments he manages, Blaine takes to looking around Brittany's room. There are several cheerleading and dance trophies adorning various shelves and flat surfaces. In one corner sits a video camera on a tripod which Blaine knows is used to film _Fondue for Two_ ; in the other corner is a small keyboard. Her bulletin board catches his attention most, though: there are several pictures of her with friends on the walls but the ones on the bulletin board seem to hold a special place. There's an old one, maybe from freshman or sophomore year, of her with the Cheerios. Two of the photographs, Blaine notes fondly, are the same as the ones he has in his room, one of New Directions and the other of their PFLAG group. There's a small strip of photographs tucked into one of the corners -- obviously black and whites from a photo booth -- of her and Santana, grinning, pulling faces, even _kissing_.

Blaine smiles as he shifts his attention to her nightstand, eyes lingering on the assortment of PFLAG pamphlets and an issue of _Teen Vogue_ dog-eared at pages where Brittany's name appears under a heading that says _Latest Trends_. He takes the magazine and settles down on the couch to read it, eyes widening as he realizes that Brittany was interviewed for this, that they actually wanted her opinion and insight --

“Brittany!” Blaine whips around from his seat on the couch, lap full of cat, and finds a small blonde-haired girl in the doorway; her hair is damp and her duffel bag is weighed down with a towel and a pair of soccer cleats. “There's a boy in your room!” She grins at Blaine cheekily and skips down the hallway.

Brittany appears in the doorway a moment later, wet hair swept into a side ponytail. “Hi Blaine!” she greets brightly. Lord Tubbington hops off of Blaine's lap immediately and prances over to Brittany, purring loudly. “Yes, yes, I have a treat for you,” she coos, leaning down and placing -- is that _cheese_? -- into the cat's mouth.

“Um,” Blaine starts, unsure of how to approach the subject. Sure, she'd mentioned feeding her cat cheese, but Blaine didn't think she actually _did it_ \--

Brittany sets her bag down on the bed, looking at Blaine nervously for a moment, before shutting her bedroom door. She turns on her iPod to mask any noise they might make (Blaine thinks he recognizes the song) and sets Lord Tubbington down on the bed. “Can I tell you a secret?” she asks quietly. “Will you promise not to say anything? At least... at least not right now?”

“My lips are -- yes, you can tell me,” he amends, deciding being concise and clear is best with Brittany.

She bites her lip but seems to to decide that she can trust him and moves across the room, digging around in her nightstand drawer before unearthing another pamphlet and sitting down next to Blaine on the couch. The second she hands it to him, she rushes to explain. “There's a dance camp,” she says hurriedly, “in California. It's for kids but they want counselors. It's really amazing -- they're having Mia Michaels and Travis Wall there for a special session, and there are rumors they might get Paula Abdul, but I'm not sure about that.”

“It sounds fantastic,” Blaine enthuses, flipping through the pamphlet. “So, what -- you want to apply to be a counselor? They pay you for that, right?”

Brittany nods. “I know I'd be good at it; I've got lots of experience with dance and kids, but...”

“But?” Blaine prompts, setting the pamphlet down.

“But I can't get in if I don't graduate or at least have my G.E.D or something,” she sighs.

“Hence the tutoring,” Blaine sighs. “This is really stressing you out.”

Brittany nods, surveying him for a moment, before taking the plunge and revealing, “It's not just about me, though. I mean, I'd love to make a career out of it, I probably could. But I just... I keep thinking about 'Tana.”

Blaine reaches over to take her hand. “What about her?” he asks quietly.

“She's got nowhere to go,” Brittany says sadly. “What's she gonna do after graduation? I don't know if she's going to school or working or if she's just going to disappear. But... if I get this, it means I get my foot in the door.”

Blaine stares at her for a long moment and then realizes what she's getting at. “You want to take care of her,” he says softly. “You want this so you can get a paycheck and give her a place to live.”

“I want what you have.” Blaine merely looks his confusion, so Brittany clarifies, “You and Kurt. You have all of these plans and you're ready to go start a new life. You and Kurt and Rachel, you're all going to New York; Mike and Tina are getting married, you guys are getting married --”

“We're not,” Blaine cuts in, but Brittany shakes her head.

“ _'Tana_ wants what you guys have,” Brittany enthuses. “She sees it too. We all do.”

Blaine flushes but smiles anyway, letting Brittany win the argument. “Well let's see what I can do for you.”

Brittany smiles and pulls out her textbook. “Okay, I've gotten the hang of fractions, and square roots --”

“What's the square root of four?” Blaine asks quickly.

“Two,” Brittany answers proudly. “I'm just having trouble with trigonometry. I don't understand the sine thing.”

“Well the basics aren't too hard. Here, I'll show you.” He takes a pencil from her and draws a right triangle in her notebook. “The inside corners of the triangles are angles.” Brittany nods in acknowledgment. “The sine, cosine, tangent thing is just trying to figure out what those angles are.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. “How do you figure that out?”

“The book will usually give you numbers,” Blaine explains, penciling in some more, “for the lengths of the sides of the triangle. You use those numbers to find out what the angle is.”

“That doesn't seem so hard,” Brittany muses, her face clearing a little.

“It's not,” Blaine assures her. “It's just about memorizing different formulas. Sine is opposite over hypotenuse, cosine is adjacent over hypotenuse, and tangent is opposite over adjacent.” Brittany looks at him blankly, eyes wide, and Blaine frowns. “It's the formulas you're having trouble with,” he realizes. “You can't memorize them.”

“It's hard,” Brittany defends. “Some stuff I can memorize, like lyrics and dance moves, but other stuff, like this...” She sighs and shifts her textbook in her lap, knocking over another notebook.

Blaine leans forward to pick it up, a stapled set of papers with red ink catching his eye. It takes him a second to realize it's an exam from her biology class, marked with a spiky red _'A'_ at the top. The heading reads _Human Anatomy -- Skeletal System_. Blaine stares at it disbelievingly. “You aced your biology exam,” he says, dumbfounded.

Brittany smiles widely, beaming. “Oh, yeah,” she says proudly, “I did.”

“But... how?” Blaine asks, bewildered. “You have trouble memorizing things.”

“Glee club,” she says simply. When Blaine raises his eyebrows, she laughs and clarifies, “Well, singing and dancing, really. There was an episode of _Hannah Montana_ where she was having trouble memorizing the skeletal system for her class, so she took one of her songs and changed the lyrics and choreographed moves to help her remember.”

“So you just memorized the song and dance she did?”

“Well, sort of,” Brittany says, tugging at her ponytail. “She didn't do the whole song or all of the bones. I had to make up some of it myself.”

Blaine looks back down at the test and then back up at Brittany. “You're not stupid, Brittany,” he says slowly, deliberately. She flushes and smiles a little, clearly pleased. “You just... learn differently.” With renewed determination, he sets the test aside and turns his attention back to the math. “When I learned this, I had the best math teacher,” he reveals. “And she had this mnemonic that helped us to remember the formulas.”

“New- what?” Brittany asks, blinking.

“It's like... like a trick to help you remember.”

“Like a magic trick?”

“Yeah,” Blaine says with a slight laugh. “Like a magic trick for your brain.”

“Oh,” Brittany sighs, breathing a little easier. “I need that. I need something like... glue to keep stuff together in my head.” And _wow_ , if that isn't the most accurate description of Brittany's problem that Blaine's ever heard. “So what's the trick?”

“It's sort of like memorizing lyrics,” Blaine says, ideas starting to form. “You memorize a saying that has the same letters as what you're studying. My teacher taught us 'Oscar had a hunk of apples,' but you can make up your own, if you want.”

“I like that,” Brittany says thoughtfully. “But how do you remember that? I don't know anyone named Oscar -- oh! Unless you count Oscar the Grouch, from Sesame Street.”

“That works,” Blaine says, grinning. “He lives in a garbage can and he has a bunch of rotten apple cores.”

“Okay,” Brittany says, writing the phrase in her notebook. “Oscar had a hunk of apples. Now what?”

“Now you practice,” Blaine instructs, filling in numbers on the sides of the triangle. “What words go with sine?”

“Oscar... had,” Brittany says, punctuating the words with the tip of her pencil. “So... opposite over... hypotenuse?”

“Good!” Blaine exclaims. “So you take those numbers, plug them into your calculator, except --” Blaine sighs, trying to figure out how to explain this part to Brittany. “When you're looking for angles, you have to use the inverse, which means these two buttons,” he explains, pointing to them.

“Why both buttons?” she asks, puzzled. “Why can't I use the regular one?”

“It's like reading a book. You read left to right, top to bottom. So the problem will say 'sin x = o/h.' You have to find 'x.'”

“So it's like working backwards?” she guesses.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, eyes lighting up. “Like working backwards. Like turning the problem inside out. Plug in your numbers and then you have your answer!”

“Like pieces of a puzzle?” Brittany ventures.

“Exactly like pieces of a puzzle,” Blaine agrees.

“So cosine is 'a hunk' --” Blaine smirks a little. “-- which is adjacent over hypotenuse. And tangent is 'of apples' -- that sounds like a fragrance -- which is... opposite over adjacent. Right?” She looks at Blaine hopefully and Blaine has to resist pressing his index finger to his nose to tell her she's right. Instead he smiles and nods. “Oh, this is so much easier!”

Blaine watches her fondly for a moment before tugging the textbook closer. “Problem one. 'Given a 3,4,5 right triangle, find the cosine of angle B.” Brittany's tongue pokes past her lips as she works determinedly, pencil scratching against the paper and fingers tapping on the calculator. She holds the it up to Blaine when she's done, biting her lip in anticipation. Blaine flashes her a thumbs up and her face almost _splits_ with a grin. “Problem two,” he says, tapping the book again.

They work in silence for a while, Blaine unearthing his history textbook while Brittany works on math, occasionally leaning over to check her answers. After a while, Brittany ventures, “You said you were having trouble picking a song to sing to Kurt.”

Blaine sighs and sets his book down, stretching his legs. “Yeah,” he groans.

“Well what do you want to say to him?” she asks. Blaine raises an eyebrow, unsure of what she's asking. “Like, when I dated Artie, he sang _P.Y.T._ for me. And Santana did _Songbird_ , even though it was just for me. Well, Brad was in the room, but he's just furniture.”

Blaine chuckles and shakes his head, thinking hard. “I don't know,” he sighs honestly. “'I love you' seems too simple and cliché and easy. I feel like I need to say something more.”

Brittany cocks her head to the side, gazing at him thoughtfully. “Sometimes less is more,” she notes. “Like 'thank you,' that's a simple thing to say. But sometimes it means a lot.”

Warmth floods Blaine's chest. “What would I be thanking him for?”

Brittany's quiet for a moment, obviously thinking, before she gasps and reaches over to toy with Blaine's hair. “Slushies!” she exclaims. “Not your first, but every one you had thrown at you after -- didn't he help you clean up? Didn't he wash your hair out for you and everything?”

Blaine offers her a small smile, nodding. “Yeah... I think... I think that helps, Brit, thanks.”

“Do you want to practice?” she offers kindly. “We could use my keyboard.”

“You play?” Blaine asks, surprised.

Brittany nods. “I had lessons when I was little. It's one of the things I don't have trouble remembering.” Blaine's chest _aches_ and he pushes himself off of the couch rather clumsily when Brittany moves to the keyboard, fingers moving across the key with grace. “What'd you have in mind?” she asks brightly, looking up at him with shining eyes. A smile plays at Blaine's lips and he leans in next to her, playing the opening chords. She recognizes the song and after a few moments, they find their footing.

It's around seven when Mrs. Pierce knocks softly and pokes her head in the door. “Will you be staying for dinner, Blaine?” she asks kindly.

Blaine smiles at her and shakes his head. “I promised Kurt I'd have dinner with him tonight. Actually,” he adds, glancing at his pocket watch, “I should probably head over there.” Brittany helps him back up his bag and then all three blondes escort him to the front door. Blaine finds himself with a paper plate of chocolate chip cookies in hand, Lord Tubbington rubbing at his legs again. “Thanks,” Blaine says happily. “Do you... do you want me to come back, next Thursday?” he offers.

Brittany nods eagerly. “Yes, please.” She leans forward and engulfs him in a warm hug, squeezing tightly. “Thank you, Blaine.” And for the second time in the last month and a half, Blaine hears the words, “You're a really good friend.” He fights back tears and avoids her mother's gaze as he makes his way out to his car, huffing slightly as he bangs his head against the steering wheel.

Blaine has so many _feelings_.

He bottles them up and drives to Kurt's.

Finn lets him into the house when he arrives and shows him into the kitchen. Good smells and laughter assault Blaine's senses when he walks into the room, but Blaine only has eyes, hands, thoughts, lips for Kurt. He rushes across the kitchen in three strides and cups Kurt's face in his hands, crushing their lips together fervently and pressing his boyfriend against the kitchen counter. Kurt inhales sharply and flails for a second before slowly bringing his hands up to wrap around Blaine's wrists. When Blaine finally breaks the kiss, Kurt's wide-eyed and breathless and Finn is yelling out, “Dude, that's my _brother_.”

Blaine doesn't care to look over at Burt and Carole, at least not tonight. They're normally good about toning down PDA in front of everyone else even though it _kills_ Blaine not to be touching Kurt like, every second they're together. But tonight... tonight Blaine feels loved and wanted and appreciated and he wants to be around the one person who does all that the most.

Burt clears his throat and Blaine finally gives into embarrassment a little, ducking his head into Kurt's shoulder and coloring. His fingers still rub at Kurt's hip though, as the rest of the family takes food and plates to the table. “You okay?” Kurt asks breathlessly, grabbing Blaine's hand. Blaine nods against his shoulder. Kurt seems to only half-believe him but lets it go, grabbing the salad bowl and ushering Blaine into the dining room.

*****

After dinner, Kurt drags him upstairs to curl up together on the bed. Blaine settles his head against Kurt's chest but stays quiet. “Where were you?” Kurt asks quietly. “I almost thought you weren't coming.”

“Brittany's,” Blaine answers truthfully.

Kurt's quiet for a minute. And then, very seriously, he deadpans, “Blaine, it's okay if you want to question your sexuality again, but you don't have to _date my ex-girlfriend_.”

Blaine snorts and smacks Kurt on the chest. “Don't be mean,” he whines. “I was actually tutoring her.”

“Use any euphemism you want, Blaine --”

“Oh my god,” he laughs, shifting slightly to look up a Kurt. “Stop it! You're awful!” Kurt smirks but lets up, kissing Blaine's forehead. “She needed help in math.”

“Math?” Kurt asks blankly. “You were tutoring Brittany in math? Brittany, the girl who thinks that the square root of four is _rainbows_?”

“Hey,” Blaine defends, “she actually knows it's two, now. Cut her some slack.”

Something shifts in Kurt's eyes and he softens almost imperceptibly. “Do you think you helped her?”

“Yeah,” Blaine says with a smile, “I think I did.”

Kurt looks at him for a long moment and then _launches_ himself at Blaine, kissing him fiercely and rolling them over so he can straddle Blaine's hips. Blaine barely has time to react beyond a gasp as Kurt's fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, fingertips dancing on Blaine's skin. Kurt's lips linger on his and then trace down his jaw, tonguing and sucking furiously at Blaine's neck.

And Blaine -- Blaine doesn't even know how to _begin_ to process this. Kurt's not even trying to take his clothes off yet and this is nothing, nothing compared to what they've done before. They've gone from rutting up against each other to tentatively reaching hands into each others' waistbands to mouths gently sucking and licking. But this -- the way Kurt is practically _devouring_ him right now -- this is the beginning of something uncharted, something new and terrifying and so very real.

But as close as they might be, as much as Blaine wants Kurt's hand on him, electrifying his skin, _Blaine isn't ready_. They aren't ready, not quite a cohesive unit yet. They're best friends and attached at the hip and already act like an old married couple, sure. They've planned out their future and somewhere deep down, Blaine knows he's going to marry this boy one day. But this is here and now, and Kurt is above him, writhing but not grinding, panting but not moaning, and Blaine knows that Kurt isn't ready either.

“Hey,” he murmurs quietly, running his hand up and down Kurt's back soothingly. “What's with you?”

Kurt stops his ministrations and rests his head on Blaine's shoulder, sighing loudly. “I don't deserve you,” he mumbles into Blaine's ear.

“What?” Blaine asks, half-laughing and pushing Kurt up off of him a little.

Kurt props himself up on his elbow, half lying on Blaine's chest, his lips pursed in displeasure. “Just -- look at you. Look at who you are and what you do. You're dreamy and charming and smart and just perfect. You put aside your differences with Dave to help him deal with his sexuality, you almost took a punch for him --”

“He took the punch for me,” Blaine murmurs, disgruntled.

“Still,” Kurt argues. “You transferred to McKinley to try and prepare yourself for life outside of this stupid high school. You were willing to take Santana in when her mom kicked her out, and now you're tutoring Brittany and I just -- how are you even real? How are you even mine?”

“Are we really doing this?” Blaine asks disbelievingly, sitting up against the pillows. “Are you actually being serious right now?”

Kurt bites his lip. “Maybe?” he says weakly.

“Kurt,” Blaine sighs, reaching out to rub at his boyfriend's shoulder, “Kurt, I _love_ you. I love everything you are and everything you choose to be. I am so, so far from perfect and I ask myself every day how I lucked out with you because I was an _idiot_. I took ages to realize that I'd been in love with you all along, and I screwed up so much, _so much_ , along the way. I -- god, Kurt, I'm a mess. I fumble my way through everything I do and somehow you see past all that and find... I don't even know,” he laughs, looking down at his lap. “I was going to sing to you,” he admits quietly. “For Valentine's Day.”

Kurt sits up a little more, eyes wide, and shakes his head. “No,” he says seriously. “Blaine, please. _No._ ”

“Ouch,” Blaine laughs, clutching his chest, feigning being wounded. “No, really, don't take _Somewhere Only We Know_ into account or anything.”

“That wasn't for Valentine's Day,” Kurt points out.

“Okay,” Blaine allows, scooting back down and pulling Kurt up against him. “If I spare you a public display, can I sing to you now?”

“I suppose that's okay,” Kurt allows loftily, tracing patterns onto Blaine's shirt.

Blaine smiles gently and traces his own path, planning accordingly to meet Kurt's fingers halfway. He opens his mouth and starts to sing.


	5. Blaine Anderson

**Tuesday, 27 March 2011**

“Blaine!”

Blaine and Kurt both turn from their spot at Blaine's car in the parking lot of OSU to find Brittany jogging toward them, Santana at her heels. “Hey, Brit,” he greets warmly.

“I forgot to show you this at the meeting,” she says breathlessly, finally stopping in front of them. “Look!”

She waves a small stack of papers in front of him and he takes them, glancing down and grinning widely at the singular red mark on the top of the page. “You aced your math exam!” he says proudly. “That's great, Brittany; I'm really proud of you.”

“Thanks,” she says, flushing. “We're still going to do our tutoring sessions on Thursdays though, right?”

“Of course,” Blaine says, shifting and glancing over at Kurt. “But not this Thursday. It's spring break but that's not why -- our anniversary's on Thursday.”

“Oh,” Brittany says brightly. “That's okay! Next week, then?”

“Next week,” Blaine promises, returning the hug she bestows on him. Over her shoulder, he sees Santana smiling and mouthing 'thank you' at him; he shakes his head.

As the girls make their way to Brittany's car, Blaine turns to find Kurt smiling warmly at him, eyes shining. “I know that look,” Blaine says warningly, smirking a little.

“I can wait until you get in the car, if you like,” Kurt offers, grinning mischievously.

“Or,” Blaine counters, dropping his voice and pressing Kurt up against the side of the car, “I could just turn the tables and kiss you senseless right here and now.” Kurt hums pleasantly as Blaine leans closer, eyes fluttering shut as his lips ghost over Kurt's --

“Looks like Anderson found himself a new queen to parade around.”

Blaine's eyes fly open, his chest seizing and his stomach dropping. He can't think, he can't breathe, he can't swallow, he can't speak, he can't do anything. His whole system is freezing up but there's one overwhelming desire taking over, one thought that's pushing its way through: _Not Kurt._

“Get in the car,” Blaine says lowly. Kurt's face twists unpleasantly into a scowl and he looks like he wants to retaliate but Blaine grabs his arm firmly. “Get in the car, Kurt,” he says again, more forcefully. Kurt blinks but his jaw remains rigid and he extracts himself from Blaine's embrace, climbing into the car and slamming the door shut after him.

Blaine reaches into his pocket and hits the 'lock' button.

Slowly, he turns around and finds himself almost face to face with someone he hasn't seen in three years, someone whose memory is marred by streaks of red and the cracking sound of bone -- “What do you want, Mark?”

“Nothing,” he slurs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Drunk, he was drunk that night too, drunk and full of ignorance and hate and fury -- “I thought we might've beaten it out of you, but you just seem to be getting gayer all the time. I mean, really, Anderson, that guy looks --”

“Leave Kurt alone,” Blaine says quietly, fists clenching. “You don't know him. He hasn't done anything to you. It's me you have the problem with.”

“Oh, look at you, you grew a pair!” Mark crows delightedly. “Protecting the queen, that's nice --”

“I'm serious, Mark,” Blaine growls. “Lay off.”

“Or what?” Mark counters, taunting him. “Gonna throw a punch at me, Anderson? Gonna actually man up, unlike the last time?”

“What's your problem?” Blaine asks abruptly. And this is a really, _really_ bad idea because Mark is still twice his size and things didn't end well the last time. But Blaine is the king of inappropriate and impulsive, speaking before thinking and the anger in his veins acts as a driving force: the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “The whole gay thing hit a little too close to home for you?”

Something flashes in Mark's eyes and Blaine knows what's going to happen before it does. Mark takes a step forward and raises an arm; his knuckles brush against Blaine's cheek ever so lightly and all Blaine can think is _not Kurt_.

But then something is pulling the skin away from him before it makes any real impact and Blaine can feel the force of it disturb the air around him; he opens his eyes and watches in amazement as -- for the second time in four months - David steps in between him and an assailant. “Step off,” he growls angrily.

“Oh-ho!” Mark laughs, surveying David. “ _Two_ butt buddies now, Anderson? I didn't think you had it in you --”

Blaine feels _sick_ , but David stands his ground. “Do you _want_ me to break your face?” he hisses. “I have no problem introducing you to The Fury.”

Mark looks beyond David to Blaine, still smirking, but he seems slightly intimidated now and doesn't make another move. “Nothing's changed, has it, Anderson?” he chides. “Still getting other people to fight your battles for you --”

David actually _laughs_. “He doesn't need anyone to fight his battles for him; he almost did me in once.” It's a half-lie, half-truth, because they'd never gone beyond shoving and Blaine's pretty sure he would've actually lost that fight, but he's not going to argue with David. “You know,” David adds thoughtfully, “I think my ex-girlfriend's still around somewhere. And trust me, you don't want to mess with her.”

Mark snorts. “I think I can handle a couple of queers and a chick.”

“Last time it was three against two,” Blaine reminds him quietly. “You sure about that?”

Mark's eyes narrow but something beyond Blaine catches his eye and he pales a little, fumbling away toward his car. Blaine and David turn around simultaneously and see two figures crossing the parking lot at top speed in their direction. “Blaine!” Brittany breathes, flinging herself on him. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

“F -- fine, Brit,” he stammers, unable to bring his arms up to hug her back. She pulls back and surveys his face anxiously.

“Should we go after that asshole?” Santana asks furiously. “I got the whole thing on video on my phone -- Brit memorized the license plate number.”

“Apple, orange, banana, cat, dance, eight, six,” Brittany recites on cue.

Blaine shakes his head. “No, that should be more than enough,” he says shakily, extracting himself from Brittany's embrace.

“He was one of the guys who gave you those scars,” David says quietly after a moment. “He knew you.”

“What?!” Santana hisses angrily. “Oh _hell_ no, let me go after him, I will go _all_ Lima Heights Adjacent on his ass --” Brittany has to hold her back from literally _bolting_ across the parking lot.

“It'll be fine,” Blaine assures her. “I just -- I need to talk to my dad, you guys have to come with me.”

“We're there,” Santana assures him.

Brittany reaches out to touch his arm, and at her touch, Blaine just _snaps_. “I think... I think I'm going to be sick,” he chokes out. It takes him five seconds to dart to a nearby cluster of bushes and vomit violently into them. The third time his stomach heaves, he feels Brittany's hand rubbing up and down his back soothingly. It's several moments before he can bring himself to stand and he's _trembling_ now, almost unable to support himself. Brittany holds his arm and ushers him back to the other two. “We need to go,” Blaine says. “Who knows where Mark is at this point --”

“We'll go,” David assures him. “But, uh... you might want to let your boyfriend out of the car. He doesn't look too happy.”

Blaine closes his eyes because oh yeah, there's a reason all of this is happening -- Kurt, Kurt and Blaine's ridiculously insane need to protect the man he loves from the same fate he suffered. Swallowing, he reaches back into his pocket and hits the 'unlock' button; there's a click and then the door swings open and Blaine can hear Kurt's footsteps crossing the parking lot rapidly. Blaine feels a hand on his shoulder, turning him around --

“Have you lost your mind?” Kurt seethes. He looks beyond pissed -- he looks absolutely _livid_. “What were you _thinking_ \--”

“Kurt,” Blaine interrupts, holding up a hand, “I really, really can't do this with you right now. We have to get back to my house to talk to my dad. Get back in the car.” Kurt stares at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, but he recovers quickly and sets his jaw squarely again, striding back to the car and slamming the door shut with a loud _bang_. He folds his arms over his chest and sits there, stony.

Blaine sighs. He glances at the other three for a brief moment before they all clamber into their cars to head to the Anderson house. Blaine hesitates once he gets in the car, doesn't immediately turn the engine over; he wants nothing more than to reach out for Kurt's hand right now but Kurt's not having any of it. He won't even _look_ at Blaine. Aching, Blaine resigns himself and puts the car in drive.

When the five of them amble through the front door of Blaine's house, George Anderson looks up quizzically at the group from his spot at the dining room table. “Blaine?” he questions. “I didn't know you were having friends over --”

“Mark Crowning violated the restraining order,” Blaine announces without preamble.

Kurt finally whips his head around to look at Blaine, eyebrows arched, but it's Santana who is actually vocal in her reaction. “You have a _restraining order_ against him?”

There's a betrayal of shock on his father's face for the briefest of moments -- his face pale and gaping -- but he recovers quickly and clears his throat. “Are -- are you alright?”

“Fine,” Blaine placates tiredly. “David stepped in, Santana has video, Brittany got the license plate number,” he recites in a bored voice. Santana glares over at him, her eyes searching, boring into him, but Blaine doesn't meet her gaze, refuses to give anything away.

“Thank you,” Mr. Anderson says quietly. “Can you -- will you all show me what you have, share your accounts?” Santana steps forward first, setting her phone down on the table and playing the video for Mr. Anderson; she'd been too far away to catch snippets of the conversation -- something Blaine finds himself extremely grateful for -- but the video is clear enough and when Mark's fist brushes against Blaine's cheek, Blaine can hear his father actually inhale sharply. “You stepped in,” Mr. Anderson says to David as the video continues to play. David merely nods in affirmation.

The rest is a blur to Blaine, who sinks down heavily into a chair while Brittany writes down the license plate number and David gives his account of the encounter. Only Kurt remains silent, sinking down in a chair at the opposite end of the table from Blaine, arms folded across his chest again. He looks less angry and more... Blaine's not sure what exactly Kurt's feeling right now, and he hates that, but he has to do this, he has to deal with his dad and the stupid legality of this whole stupid, stupid night.

It's worth it.

When Mr. Anderson looks over at Kurt expectantly, it dawns on Blaine that they've never met, never spoken. His father doesn't even know what Kurt looks like -- Blaine's not even sure his father remembers Kurt's name. His father is asking something of his boyfriend without even realizing the connection. Kurt colors, raises his chin defiantly, and says, quite tersely, “Blaine locked me in the car as soon as the man -- Mark? -- started talking. I saw the whole thing from there. What they told you is accurate.”

Mr. Anderson's brow furrows in confusion for a moment but then unwrinkles slowly as he realizes why his son acted the way he did, who the young man sitting in front of him must be. “Oh,” he says quietly, obviously flustered. He composes himself and looks down at Santana's phone again. “Where were you all?”

“Parking lot as OSU,” David explains.

Mr. Anderson blinks in confusion. “Why were you at OSU on your spring break?”

The other four look at Blaine, who doesn't meet his father's gaze but answers, “PFLAG meeting.”

“Oh,” Mr. Anderson says awkwardly, looking between David, Santana, and Brittany. “So you're all...”

“Gay?” Santana says icily. She narrows her eyes at Mr. Anderson and Blaine's reminded of the fact that she almost ended up living here, was almost subjected to his father's stupid, stupid determination to make his son straight. “Yeah, we are. I hope that's not a _problem_ \--” she snaps.

Blaine cuts her off. “'Tana,” he says warningly. She glares at him but he shakes his head, urging her to drop it.

She rolls her eyes but turn his attention back to Mr. Anderson. “Do you need anything else?” she asks tersely.

“Names,” Mr. Anderson says, recoiling as Santana walks up to the notepad on the table, “and phone numbers.”

As they ready themselves to leave, Brittany leans down to hug Blaine again before Santana drags her out of the house. David lingers for a moment, though, when Blaine walks him to the door. “Thanks,” Blaine says awkwardly. “I owe you twice, now.”

There's a pause, and then, “We look after our own.” He spins on his heel and is out the door without another word.

Blaine sighs and returns to the dining room. Kurt's gone but his father remains at the table, simply _staring_ at Blaine. “I have to call our lawyer,” his father announces. Blaine nods. “Your... the other boy went upstairs, to your room, I think.”

Blaine bounds up the stairs because he's so _done_ dealing with his dad tonight; he has to get to Kurt, he has to explain, he has to fix this. He stops off in the bathroom for a brief moment to brush his teeth because he's going to be sick again from the taste if he doesn't, and then heads to his bedroom, drawing in a breath as he turns the doorknob.

He's barely shut it behind him before Kurt is off of the bed, pacing. “What is _wrong_ with you?” Kurt hisses, waving his hands wildly. “What were you _thinking_? _Why_ did you do that? Why did you lock me in the car? I was _trapped_ in there, Blaine. You locked me in and my phone was dead and you confronted someone who almost _beat you to death._ What would have happened if David hadn't shown up, or if Santana and Brittany had already left? I couldn't call for help, I couldn't get out of the car to stop it. What if I had to _watch_ , Blaine, while he --” Kurt stops abruptly here, mouth clamping shut because -- Blaine knows -- he can't bring himself to actually say the rest of that thought out loud. He bites his lip so hard that Blaine thinks he'll draw blood, and there it is again, that emotion Blaine can't peg down, not anger, but... “Why did you lock me in the car, Blaine?” he asks again, much quieter.

Blaine huffs out, shoulder sagging with weight, as he stares at Kurt pleadingly, fighting tears. “I _love you_ , Kurt.” Kurt makes an impatient noise but Blaine shakes his head. “No, _listen_ to me. I love you. I love you so much I can't see straight sometimes. And I know, I _know_ that I don't always think things through, that I'm impulsive and make really stupid decisions. And sometimes I do that _because_ I love you so much.”

“That doesn't make any sense, Blaine,” Kurt says, exasperated.

“Yes, it does,” Blaine counters, barely giving time to argue. “You -- god, Kurt, I realize that you're upset right now, but can you just stop and take a minute to actually _think_ about why I did that?”

Kurt stares at him quizzically for a few moments, eyebrows scrunched. “You recognized his voice,” Kurt says finally. “You knew who he was.”

“I knew what he was capable of,” Blaine says very carefully. “I just... froze. And all I could think about was _you_.”

“But why?” Kurt breathes, shaking his head in bewilderment.

“I had to keep him away from you,” Blaine explains simply. “I had to get you in that car. I had to _protect you_ ,” he enthuses. Kurt opens his mouth to protest but Blaine doesn't let him. “It's not about whether you needed it or not. You're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, I know that. That's not what this is about. Don't turn it into that.”

“They why?” Kurt asks for the countless time. “What --”

“You're my whole world, Kurt,” Blaine breathes earnestly. Kurt blinks, surprised, and settles down on the bed. Blaine sighs and sinks down next to him, hesitantly reaching out to rest a hand on Kurt's knee. Kurt doesn't pull away. “You understand me better than anyone. We've been planning our future for months and I can't envision a future without you in it.” Kurt's breath catches in his chest and it takes _all_ of Blaine's willpower not to just say _marry me_ right then and there. “You make my world brighter. And when I heard Mark tonight, I just... I couldn't let the light go out.”

Kurt inhales shakily and he's so much more... not relaxed. Understanding, maybe. “So... you love me,” Kurt says slowly.

Blaine laughs a little even though he doesn't really feel like it. “So much that it _terrifies_ me to think about anything happening to you. I can't lose you, Kurt.”

Kurt's lips purse and he blinks; there are tears welling in his eyes but he's not crying, not yet. After a second, he leans forward and wraps his arms around Blaine. Blaine closes his eyes and breathes out, leaning in and returning the embrace. And they just sit there _holding_ each other for a while, silent and warm and fighting tears and so _in love_. Between them, Kurt reaches for Blaine's hand and clutches it tightly. “I can't lose you either,” Kurt breathes, and Blaine can hear the tears in his voice. “God, if you even knew what was going through my head in that car, Blaine...” Blaine tugs him closer, exhaling loudly into Kurt's ear.

“Ahem.”

Blaine pulls away, entirely reluctantly, and looks over at his father who stands awkwardly in the doorway. “Yeah?” he sighs, refusing to relinquish Kurt's hand.

“I got in touch with our lawyer. He's agreed to meet with me... Will you be okay for a little while on your own?” His gaze shifts to Kurt for a split second and Blaine can't tell exactly why his father is nervous to leave him alone; either he doesn't like the idea of leaving Blaine alone after the night's events, or he doesn't like the idea of leaving Blaine alone with his boyfriend. Either way, Blaine is not in the mood to deal with his father right now so he nods, hoping his father will leave quickly.

But he doesn't. He stands there surveying the two of them for a moment and then he enters the room tentatively, a steaming mug in his hand. Blaine watches in disbelief as his father crosses the room to the bed, hesitates for the space of the moment, and then offers the mug to Kurt. Kurt looks up at him, eyes wide, and then slowly reaches out to take the mug. “Tea,” Mr. Anderson says quietly. “Decaf. You seemed tense downstairs.”

“I -- thank you,” Kurt stammers. Mr. Anderson nods shortly and leaves quickly, not giving Blaine a second glance or stopping to say much more. Blaine stares down at the mug. “I'm sure it's not poisoned,” Kurt reasons softly. He takes a sip of it to demonstrate his belief, but Blaine can't tear his eyes away from it, gaze fixated on Kurt's lips as he drinks. Kurt sets the mug down on the nightstand, trying to regain Blaine's attention. They hear the car roll out of the driveway; Kurt reaches over to take Blaine's hands again --

They're kissing before Blaine even really knows it's happening, lips soft and tentative and yet wanting and _desperate_ for each other. Every kiss before this, every kiss for the last year has been experimental and new; now the kisses are familiar and much more sure, well-practiced and daring. There's no fear of being pushed away and rejected, no worrying about going too fast or too slow.

Kurt sucks on Blaine's lower lip, gasping a little and reaching down to tug at the hem of Blaine's shirt. And this, _this_ is what they've been working toward, what they've been so hesitant to approach, but Blaine knows, he knows that the time is right. They aren't going to speak, there aren't going to be any questions. No _it's too soon_ s or _are you sure_ s or _tell me to stop_ s. Blaine is sure, he's _so_ sure, because the thought of losing Kurt tonight is not one he ever wants to have again; he's done waiting.

If anything gives him pause, it's the fact that this is happening under the cloud of the night's events. As his shirt falls to the floor, Blaine chances opening his eyes a little to look at Kurt. Kurt looks as flushed as Blaine feels, nervous but eager and with that same, quiet sense of calm. Everything about this is _right_. His fingers fumble as he works on the buttons of Kurt's shirt, his pacing too fast at first, and then too slow. By the time he gets Kurt's shirt off, Kurt's already working on Blaine's jeans, reaching back to tug them down and over Blaine's ass. Blaine can only reach forward and undo the button of Kurt's jeans, tugging down at the zipper, before Kurt is batting his hands away, tearing his jeans off impatiently.

Blaine tugs him back in, kissing him heatedly, hands smoothing around Kurt's neck and hip. Kurt arches into the touch, bracing himself on Blaine's shoulders. And this, this is what Blaine loves about kissing Kurt, about being intimate with Kurt, about wanting Kurt. He loves that they're desperate for it without being a rush. He loves that Kurt _wants_ Blaine to touch him. He loves that Kurt is pushing him away and pulling him closer all at once, affirmed that this is what he wants but trying to make it last.

His neck is starting to strain from leaning back as Kurt props himself on his knees, rising above Blaine to kiss him. He breaks the kiss -- briefly -- and starts to scoot over on the bed, trying to tug Kurt down on top of him. But Kurt shakes his head, climbing over Blaine's body and rolling over onto his back, beckoning Blaine closer with a wave of his fingers. Blaine huffs out his surprise because no, this isn't how this is supposed to go. Blaine is supposed to bottom the first time, they've talked about this, Blaine wants it, Kurt's okay with it --

“I need this,” Kurt whispers, reaching out for Blaine but not touching him. “I need... I need to _feel_ you. I -- Blaine, please. _Please._ ” Kurt stretches out his hand again, and Blaine falls forward, pulled by an invisible tether.

He wraps an arm around Kurt's abdomen, hooking one of his legs of Kurt's, so that he's curled up against Kurt's side and partially on his chest; it gives Blaine a slight advantage, hovering over Kurt without being fully on top of him. Blaine's lips ghost over the corners of Kurt's eyes, and for the first time, Blaine is ready to stop. “I'm okay,” he murmurs against Kurt's skin. “I'm fine.”

Kurt breathes out heavily, wrapping an arm around Blaine's back and grabbing at Blaine's shoulder again and _oh_ , how Blaine loves that. “Thank you,” Kurt chokes out. “Thank you for understanding that I was just as scared of losing you.” He lets his head fall back against the pillow and opens his eyes, a warmth flooding his irises and making the blue even more startling than normal. Blaine can't _breathe_ for a moment, Kurt is so breathtaking, but then...

Then he can. He feels like he can breathe for the first time in years, for the first time since a fist collided with his face and his lungs threatened to collapse under his ribs. And that's all Kurt's doing, waltzing into Blaine's life and lighting it, opening doors and letting in air and _mending_ Blaine, helping him breathe. And Blaine remembers, he remembers what it was like to feel Kurt's lips for the first time, he remembers holding his breath and waiting for Kurt to react. He remembers hearing Kurt's sharp inhale, sucking the breath from Blaine's body, and then exhaling quickly, giving it back.

Kurt is Blaine's lifeline.

Desire burns and bubbles beneath Blaine's skin, emotions permeating his bloodstream and mingling all of his stupid feelings with the physicality of the moment, Kurt nearly naked in his bed and waiting for Blaine to keep going. Blaine reaches over and toys with the waistband of Kurt's briefs, closing his eyes and breathing out over Kurt's face. Kurt inhales, taking, and then breathes out evenly, giving back. Blaine takes the air as permission and tugs down, his breath hitching as Kurt's nails drag across his skin, working at tearing down Blaine's boxers.

It's not the first time they've been naked together but it's the first time they've been naked with the intent that they're going further than the hands and mouths and friction that they usually employ. And again, Blaine knows that he doesn't need to ask for permission, doesn't need to make sure Kurt's sure, because Kurt's hands are clutching at his shoulders, his back, his hips, nails digging in possessively even though he doesn't need to. Kurt's had Blaine's soul right from the start. He's just now getting it in the most intimate way possible.

Blaine drags his lips across Kurt's jaw, kisses feather-light at first, but wetter, more insistent when he reaches Kurt's neck. Blaine opens his mouth and sucks against the spot below Kurt's ear; Kurt inhales softly, squirming a little, and Blaine can tell that his patience is running out. He moves lower, sucking right above Kurt's collarbone, fighting not to rock his hips into Kurt's thigh. Kurt's breathing becomes shallow and after a particular harsh movement of Blaine's mouth, Kurt arches upward, his cock rubbing against the inside of Blaine's wrist. “Blaine,” Kurt breathes. “Blaine, please.”

Blaine pulls back, eyes dark and breathing heavy, and fumbles around in his nightstand drawer, unearthing a bottle of lube. Kurt's eyes widen at the sight of it but he's not afraid. Nervous, maybe, but not afraid. Blaine knows Kurt's only done this a few times and it's a jump from his own fingers to Blaine's, a gigantic leap from fingers to cock. His fingers wet, Blaine moves back to Kurt, hovering a little more over Kurt's chest, shifting Kurt's legs open.

He slips a finger into Kurt, surveying his face carefully but not worrying, and when he adds a second, Blaine is sucked into a swirling vortex, Kurt bearing down on his fingers a little. Blaine huffs out a little and lets his lips fall back to Kurt's neck, lips kissing tenderly over the darkening skin where he's marked Kurt as his own. When Blaine starts to press in a little more insistently, crooking his fingers, Kurt snaps his head sideways and captures Blaine's lips with his own.

Blaine rolls his body up and forward, cock rubbing against Kurt's thigh, and Kurt pushes him away roughly, Blaine's fingers falling out. Kurt winces as Blaine stares at him, a little hurt, but Kurt nods toward the nightstand again, and the waiting is at an end. Blaine fumbles with a condom wrapper, hands shaking just a little, but Kurt reaches over to help roll it onto Blaine's cock, his hands steady. Blaine looks up to meet Kurt's eyes, and there's that warmth again, the glint that says _I love you_ and _I trust you_ and _I want this_ and _I need this_ , all of the things Blaine knows and Kurt doesn't need to say. Kurt reaches a hand up and cups Blaine's cheek, and it's all the encouragement Blaine needs.

Blaine rolls over, settling between Kurt's legs, and closes his eyes, lips hovering over Kurt's. He presses forward, into Kurt and --

“ _Oh_ ,” Kurt breathes, grabbing Blaine's shoulders and back with clammy hands.

“ _Kurt_ ,” Blaine grits out, sinking in further and clenching Kurt's hips tightly. Kurt reaches a hand down and tugs Blaine's hip closer, a silent request for Blaine to move. Blaine obliges and together they move, rocking against each other. Together, they breathe.

Kurt is beneath him, trusting him implicitly, giving himself over to Blaine in ways that make Blaine nervous. Coach Sylvester's always called Kurt 'Porcelain' but it's not until now that Blaine has ever believed it to be true. Kurt's perfectly capable of taking care of himself -- Blaine believes that, he does -- but right now Kurt is trusting that Blaine will take care of him, that Blaine won't hurt him, and as much as that responsibility terrifies him, Blaine wants to do that for Kurt, he wants to give that to Kurt. He wants it _so much_.

Blaine squeezes his eyes shut a little tighter and finally lets his lips fall to Kurt's again, inhaling and sucking and breathing and pulling and wanting. Kurt is giving, and Blaine is taking. Blaine is _overwhelmed_ , heart overruling every fiber of his being, and the last year comes crashing down on him in one fell swoop: PFLAG. Helping people come out. Transferring. Washing slushies out of his hair. Planning a future. Taking people in, taking people on. Confronting his demons. Being protective. Being brave. Being alive. Being here, in bed, with Kurt.

Blaine feels so, _so connected_ to Kurt right now in ways that have almost nothing to do with the physical. Actions speak louder than words, and tonight is all about action. Blaine locking Kurt in the car, willing to risk his own well-being, maybe his own life just to keep Kurt _safe_. Kurt wanting desperately to get out of that car, to rush to Blaine's aid even if it cost him something. The sheer _need_ to be together tonight, to affirm the love they've felt all along.

“Let go,” he hears Kurt murmur into his ear. “I know you want to.”

“Not without you,” Blaine whines back, fighting to keep an agonizingly even pace.

“Blaine,” Kurt says seriously, lifting Blaine's head from his neck and ear so they can look at each other properly. “Blaine, that's not why I'm -- I need to feel you,” he says again, rubbing at Blaine's arm. “I need you to come.”

Blaine groans in protest but gives in when Kurt reaches down, gripping Blaine's ass tightly and tugging forward hard. Blaine lifts himself up and tries to move a little higher, angle shifting inside of Kurt as he does so. Kurt gasps and bears down around him, hips bucking up involuntarily. “Okay, I take it back,” he gasps. “You're going to make me --”

“Lube,” Blaine gasps, snapping his hand in the direction of the nightstand. “Give me --” Kurt obliges quickly, hands fumbling as desire half-blinds him, and Blaine feels a swell of pride in his chest because Kurt _wants_ him. Kurt helps him slick up his hand and then Blaine is reaching between them, grabbing hold of Kurt's cock firmly and stroking in time with the snaps of his hips.

Blaine relishes in the feel of Kurt's cock in his hand, tries to concentrate on the drag of skin, the blood pulsing in Kurt's veins; he starts off slowly, trying to build up to the heat and eagerness they'd felt a minute ago, but Kurt's having none of it. He thrusts a little more urgently, a little harder and faster into Blaine's hand, and Blaine can't fight back a moan that escapes his lips. “Come on,” Kurt urges, flexing his fingers against Blaine's chest. “Let _go_. I'm coming with you.”

So Blaine does. He gives, and Kurt takes. He shifts again and Kurt keens, arching upward as Blaine hits just _there_ ; Kurt bucks up against him once, twice, three times, punctuating the end of each thrust with Blaine's name, and then he's coming brokenly beneath him, gasping quietly and spilling all over Blaine's hand and his own stomach. And Kurt -- Kurt doesn't even look at that obscene. He just looks happy, blissful, _connected_. Blaine feels Kurt clench down around him, and he can't keep his eyes open as he pushes into Kurt once more and comes, limbs trembling and heart pounding.

And this, _this_ is everything a first time should be, shaking hands and feather-light touches and gentle kisses in a post-orgasm haze. Blaine can't stop smiling as he cleans them up and Kurt is rolling his eyes and laughing at him, but they're _happy_ , happy and alive and breathing without regrets. He darts in, kissing Kurt everywhere within reach, forehead and eyes and nose and cheeks and lips, tracing down to Kurt's jaw and back down to his neck. Kurt laughs against him, pulling Blaine back up and returning the favor, tickling Blaine's ear. “Stop that,” Blaine laughs, squirming.

“No,” Kurt laughs back, nipping at Blaine's earlobe. He does stop after a minute though, looking over at Blaine thoughtfully. “We're okay, right?” he asks quietly. “You're okay? After what happened tonight?”

“I'm fine,” Blaine insists, reaching over to tug Kurt's head against his chest. “I'm just glad _you're_ okay.”

“I love you.” Kurt presses a kiss to Blaine's chest and curls up into Blaine's side, mumbling sleepily. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Blaine says quietly, “I do.” Kurt hums pleasantly and Blaine just watches and listens as Kurt's eyes flutter shut and his breathing evens out. Kurt sleeps, and Blaine breathes, Blaine lives because Kurt lives, because Kurt has pieces of him, _is_ pieces of him. He'd come to realize that, a little, when they met and their friendship grew; and then _Blackbird_ and Blaine found himself wanting Kurt to have those pieces. And slowly, Blaine gave them away. His cowardice when his hands found David's chest. His loneliness when Kurt transferred back to McKinley. His scars when Kurt asked him to prom, and his bravery when he asked Kurt to dance. His heart when he said _I love you_. His loyalty at every PFLAG meeting. His future when they applied to colleges. His protection when he heard Mark's voice, and now, finally, tonight, every last inch of his body.

Okay, forget pieces. Kurt has _all_ of Blaine.

A car door slams shut outside and Blaine tenses a little for the first time since they'd first embraced in this room an hour or so ago. He looks from the window to the door and then down at Kurt, weighing his options. He sighs quietly and extracts himself out from under Kurt's arms, taking care not to wake him. He pulls the covers up over Kurt's waist and grabs the first clothes he can find off of the floor -- his own jeans and Kurt's button-up shirt -- before heading downstairs, shutting the bedroom door behind him. He doesn't bother buttoning the shirt.

When he enters the living room, his father is sitting in the armchair and he looks... _tired_. He doesn't look up until Blaine sits down on the couch; Mr. Anderson raises an eyebrow but doesn't react beyond that. “Where's Mark?” Blaine asks quietly.

“They're looking for him,” his father answers. “Your friends said he was probably drunk. He probably hasn't gone far.” Blaine nods and looks down at his lap, fidgeting uncomfortably. “So... that's your...”

“Boyfriend,” Blaine supplies. “Yes. That's Kurt.”

His father inhales loudly but settles back into the armchair. “You locked him in the car.”

“Yes,” Blaine snaps, exasperated. “We've talked about it. He's fine now.”

“That's... not what I meant,” his father says slowly. Blaine looks up at him, arching an eyebrow. “You were trying to protect him. You didn't want him to get hurt. You... care about him.”

“I love him,” Blaine says simply. Mr. Anderson sighs and shifts in his chair, looking like he wants to argue, but Blaine refuses to let him. “No, I _love_ him, Dad. You know our anniversary's on Thursday? We've been together for a _year_. How many other teenagers do you know who have what we have? I know two. _Two_. This summer marks two years for them. So don't sit there and tell me that I'm too young to know what love is, or that I'm not capable of feeling it, because it's not true.”

His father just stares at him, eyes slightly scrunched, obviously thinking hard. Blaine, true to form, can't seem to stop talking. “He makes me _better_ , Dad. I felt so lost after Mark -- after I was almost _beaten_ to death. And Kurt _found me_. Can you just -- I wish you could understand that,” he sighs, reclining his head back against the couch.

“And I wish you knew what it was like for me,” his father says abruptly. Blaine lifts his head and stares at him wide-eyed. He's crossed a line. “My son tells me he's gay and then he ends in the hospital within an inch of his life -- you don't know what that's like as a _parent_ , Blaine.”

“No,” Blaine says. “I don't.”

There's a stiff silence between them as they each stand their ground. Finally, Blaine decides he might as well take the plunge; he's already crossed a line tonight, already sailed into uncharted waters by even _talking_ to his dad about his sexuality, about Kurt. “You know we're going to New York together, right?” Blaine asks hesitantly. “We're going to school there. We have our acceptance letters --”

“You've mentioned it,” his father says shortly.

“And then someday, in New York, I'm going to marry him,” Blaine says resolutely.

Mr. Anderson makes a disapproving noise. “Blaine --”

“ _I'm going to marry him_ ,” Blaine says again, more firmly. “And I hate that the biggest gesture you've made after a _year_ is a grand total of six words to him and handed him a cup of tea. I don't -- I don't want him to resent you the way --”

“The way you do?” his father says tersely. Blaine clamps his mouth shut. Mr. Anderson sighs. “Blaine, I'm trying, here, okay?” Blaine sighs and looks away, closing his eyes in frustration. “You had sex with him tonight.”

Blaine whips his head back to look at his father, eyes wide in disbelief. It takes him a moment to realize that his father isn't asking; he's stating it as a fact and is merely looking to Blaine for validation. Blaine looks down at his bare chest for a moment. Finally, he flushes but meets his father's gaze steadily. “Yeah,” he says through gritted teeth, “I did.”

“And you're... being safe?” his father asks awkwardly.

“Oh my god,” Blaine groans. “Can we not do this? You're a few years too late on the sex ed thing.”

“He's not your first?” his father asks, surprised.

“He _is_ ,” Blaine explains, frustrated. “But when you're a fourteen-year-old gay boy with unsupportive parents and no sex ed classes, you tend to find stuff out on your own.”

“So you're being safe,” Mr. Anderson says again, less of a question this time.

“Yes,” Blaine answers in a clipped tone. “Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to, to...”

“Be a parent?” his father finishes dryly.

“Care,” Blaine says with an edge to his voice.

Mr. Anderson is silent for a long time, staring at his son, and slowly his muscles start to relax, his face softening. “I've always cared, Blaine,” he says quietly. “I know why he -- your boyfr -- Kurt,” he finally decides, opting for the safest option. “I understand why Kurt was so upset with you tonight. He was afraid something might happen to you. We both would've hated to see you in that hospital, Blaine, or worse.” Blaine blinks and draws in a shaky breath, softening imperceptibly. “Can you please understand that I'm trying, _now_? And that should count for something?”

Blaine hesitates for the space of a moment, trying not to be so impulsive, but the night comes crashing down on him again and Blaine realizes just how _blessed_ he is. He's lucky to be alive and he has friends willing to back him up and a boy -- a _man_ \-- who loves him and a father trying to make amends. Slowly, Blaine nods.

“Blaine?”

Both Anderson men turn to the frame of the living room entryway to find Kurt standing there, rubbing his eyes sleepily. And again, even with a new leaf, Blaine's first instinct is to protect; he's up off of the couch in an instant, blocking Kurt from his father's view. He reaches out and holds Kurt's arm, caressing it lightly. “Go back upstairs, baby,” he murmurs softly. “I'll be up there in a minute.”

Kurt barely has time to do more than blink and grumble sleepily before Mr. Anderson clears his throat. “How do you take your eggs?”

Blaine turns to look at his father and arches an eyebrow in both suspicion and amusement. Kurt blinks rapidly and seems to realize that Blaine's father is back; his eyes widen a little in surprise and he looks over at Blaine once before answering. “Um, I usually make my own omelets,” Kurt says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Whites only. But it's okay, you don't have to worry about --”

“I'm assuming you're staying over,” Mr. Anderson cuts in. “I figured I'd ask for breakfast. Unless you'd prefer something else?”

Kurt stares at him for a moment. “No,” he says quietly. “Eggs are fine. I -- thank you.” Mr. Anderson nods, still obviously slightly uncomfortable, but Blaine remembers that he's trying and sighs, letting it go. He ushers Kurt back upstairs and shuts the door behind them.

He opens his mouth to say something -- explain, apologize, he's not sure what -- but Kurt distracts him. “Hey,” Blaine says dumbly. “Those are my clothes.”

Kurt looks down at his attire, blushing and grinning sheepishly. “Oh, yeah,” he admits, tugging at the hem of Blaine's shirt for the second time that night. “It was just easier this way. Plus, I didn't want to try and tug my jeans back on when I knew you were around somewhere --”

“I'm not complaining,” Blaine laughs, grinning and closing the distance between them.

Kurt lets Blaine take his hands. “They smell like you.”

“ _You_ smell like me,” Blaine points out cheekily.

“You smell like _me_ ,” Kurt counters. And Blaine sees his own eyes reflected in Kurt's, their smiles glittering and identical, their hands warm and clasping each other tightly. Kurt isn't pieces of him; Kurt is _all_ of him.

Blaine moves closer, settling into Kurt's arms and nuzzling his face into the crook of Kurt's neck. “Love you,” he murmurs.

Kurt's hand reaches up to card through Blaine's hair, and it's a quiet, tender moment before he speaks. “Well,” he sighs, “there go my plans for our anniversary.”

“Oh shut up,” Blaine mumbles. “We'll figure something out.”

“And then the rest of your Thursdays are devoted to tutoring my ex-girlfriend,” Kurt sighs.

“And Tuesdays to PFLAG meetings,” Blaine adds.

“Anything else?” Kurt asks wryly.

“No,” Blaine says with a smile, pulling back to look at Kurt properly. “But we have tonight, and Thursday night, and New York.”

“Hmm, New York,” Kurt hums pleasantly. “Can we maybe kiss a little more tonight, though? While I've got you?”

“You've always got me,” Blaine insists. “Now, and then.”


End file.
